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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE    PENITENT 


THE    PENITENT 


BY 


RENE   BAZIN 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE   NUN" 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  EVELEIGH  NASH 

1912 


TRANSLATED  BY  M.   HARRIET  M.   CAPES 


.       , ,   . 

.  •.     -       .           .    .  .       • 
••• 


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53D1E 


CONTENTS 

• 

CHAP.  PA»E 

I  THE   CLOSEEIE   DE   ROS   GRIGNON        ...  7 
o 
vr 

II  THE   DEPABTUEE        ......  25 

CM 

^    III  THE    ROAD   TO   PARIS           .....  33 

IV  THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   WASTE           ...  45 

V  THE   DISTRAINT           ......  61 

VI  THE   LAST    SUNDAY   IN   THE    NATIVE   COUNTRY    .  89 

VII  THE    DEPARTURE   OF   THE    MAN            ...  99 

>  VIII  THE    JOURNEY  .                                              ...  105 

\v 

IX  A   LA   PETITE  DONATIENNE          ....  165 

X  THE    THEATRE             ......  203 

XI  THE   PASSER-BY          .......  215 

XII  THE   RETURN   OF   SUMMER           ....  245 

XIII  THE    MOTHER    .                                   .  271 


1 


335G33 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  CLOSERIE  DE  ROS  GRIGNON 


CHAPTER   I 

THE    CLOSEEIE   DE   ROS    GBIGNON 

ON  the  threshold  of  the  farm  at  the  top  of 
the  hill,  a  man  and  a  woman  were  sitting — 
a  very  tall  man,  a  very  little  woman — both 
of  very  ancient  Breton  race.  They  sat  with 
heads  leaning  on  their  hands,  and  the  night 
had  nearly  fallen. 

A  line  of  crimson,  no  wider  than  a  spindle, 
many  leagues  in  length,  and  merely  broken 
here  and  there  by  the  distant  undulations 
of  the  land,  revealed  the  immensity  of  the 
horizon  before  them ;  but  now  its  light  barely 
touched  either  the  fleecy  clouds  that  streaked 
the  sky  or  the  Forest  of  Lorges,  whose  hills 
and  valleys  mingled  in  indistinct  waves. 

Banks  of  cloud  in  the  sky,  banks  of  mist 
amidst  the  foliage;  everything  bore  the 
same  aspect;  everything  was  asleep,  and 
from  time  to  time  there  came  a  waft  of 
pungent  scent,  the  nocturnal  breath  of  the 
Forest. 

9 


10  THE   PENITENT 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood,  some  five  hundred 
yards  from  the  house,  a  piece  of  waste  land 
showed  a  brown  patch;  then  there  came  a 
lean  field  of  harvested  buckwheat,  and,  still 
nearer,  the  stony  little  hillock,  clad  with 
broom,  on  which  stood  the  Closerie  de  Ros 
Grignon. 

They  were  poor.  After  finishing  his  term 
of  military  service,  the  man  had  married  the 
daughter  of  a  sailor,  a  servant  in  the  parish 
of  Yfifiniac,  not  far  from  that  of  Plceuc. 

She  possessed  a  few  hundred  francs,  her 
thrifty  savings,  and  a  pan?  of  very  bright 
and  innocent  black  eyes  under  the  tall  wings 
of  her  cap  shaped  like  the  flower  of  the 
cyclamen. 

As  for  him,  he  possessed  nothing ;  how  was 
it  possible  for  a  soldier  just  back  from  his 
regiment  ? 

Still,  for  all  that,  it  was  not  so  much  her 
money  which  dictated  his  choice,  but  because 
she  herself  pleased  him;  and  as  he  was 
reputed  to  be  a  hard  worker,  and  an  inde- 
fatigable one,  he  had  been  able  to  obtain  on 
lease  a  few  acres  of  poor  land,  twenty  apple- 
trees,  and  a  house  composed  of  a  stable  where 


CLOSERIE  DE   ROS   GRIGNON    11 

the  cow  lived,  and  a  room  where  the  family 
slept,  under  the  same  roof  of  thatch  a  yard 
thick  and  brown  with  moss — in  a  word,  the 
Closerie  de  Ros  Grignon. 

Nevertheless  it  did  not  pay. 

In  the  six  years  of  his  marriage  three 
children  had  been  born  to  him,  of  whom 
Joel,  the  youngest,  was  now  five  months  old. 
In  her  times  of  weakness  the  mother  could 
give  but  little  help  to  her  husband  in  the 
tilling  of  the  soil,  the  sowing,  the  weeding  or 
the  harvesting;  and  the  oats  sold  badly,  the 
buckwheat  was  almost  all  consumed  in  the 
house,  and  the  shadow  of  the  Forest,  the  deep- 
seated  roots  of  the  oak-trees  and  the  furze- 
bushes,  made  the  crops  wretchedly  poor. 

The  night  promised  to  be  damp  and  quiet, 
like  so  many  nights  towards  the  end  of 
September.  From  the  room  behind  Jean 
Louarn  and  his  wife  came  the  regular  creak 
of  the  cradle  which  Noemi,  a  little  girl  of 
five,  was  rocking  by  pulling  on  a  cord,  till 
Joel  fell  asleep. 

But  they  did  not  move;  with  vacant  eyes 
they  seemed  to  be  watching  the  lessening  of 
the  line  of  light  above  the  Forest. 


12  THE   PENITENT 

Drops  of  dew,  slipping  from  the  thatch- 
ridge,  fell  upon  the  man's  neck,  but  he  took 
no  heed. 

They  simply  rested,  breathing  in  the  cool 
air,  barren  of  thought,  but  for  that  ever 
present  haunting  dread  of  poverty,  which, 
borne  too  long,  is  now  no  longer  shared  but 
endured  by  each  alone. 

The  creaking  of  the  cradle  stopped,  and 
the  child,  but  half  asleep,  began  to  cry. 

"  PuU,  Noemi  !     Why  don't  you  pull  ?  " 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  soft  sound 
of  the  wicker  began  once  more. 

Then  the  father,  rousing  himself  from  the 
dream  that  had  held  him,  said  slowly  : 

"  We  must  sell  the  cow." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  woman;  "  we  must 
seU  her." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  talked  of 
taking  to  market  the  sole  beast  in  the  stable ; 
but  they  had  decided  not  to  do  so,  hoping  for 
some  other  means  of  salvation — what,  they 
didn't  know  ! 

"  We  must  sell  her  before  the  winter," 
Louarn  added. 

Then  he  fell  silent.     Little  Joel  was  asleep ; 


CLOSERIE  DE   ROS   GRIGNON    13 

no  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the  Closerie 
or  of  the  vast  space  around. 

The  last  gleam  of  sunset  was  now  but  a 
thread;  it  was  the  hour  when  the  beasts  of 
prey,  the  wolves,  the  foxes,  the  prowling 
martens,  leave  their  thickets  and,  with  out- 
stretched necks,  scenting  the  night,  shake  their 
paws  and  come  out  into  the  open  to  trot  along 
the  narrow  tracks. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  a  hoarse  voice. 

The  man  and  woman  got  up  with  a  start, 
and  instinctively  Louarn  made  a  step  forward 
to  put  himself  between  his  wife  and  the 
approaching  figure. 

For  a  moment  he  stood,  bent  forwards, 
trying  to  pierce  the  gloom  of  the  stony  slope, 
his  arms  rigid  by  his  sides,  ready  for  attack; 
but  in  the  feeble  ray  of  light  which  escaped 
from  the  door  and  made  a  faint  glimmer  upon 
the  mist,  appeared  a  head,  followed  by  the 
big  body  of  a  man  made  still  bigger  by  the 
folds  of  a  smock. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Louarn;  it's  me;  I've 
brought  a  letter." 

"  It's  no  time  to  be  upon  the  road,  all  the 
same,"  said  Louarn. 


14  THE   PENITENT 

"  You  live  so  far  off  !  "  answered  the  post- 
man; "  I  came  on  after  collecting.  Here  it 
is." 

The  farmer  stretched  out  his  hand,  and 
looked  at  the  envelope  with  a  sad  laugh. 
What  could  one  letter  more  or  less  from 
Lawyer  Guillon,  Mademoiselle  Penhoat's 
collector  of  rents,  matter  to  him  ? 

Since  he  couldn't  pay,  it  was  only  a  useless 
bit  of  writing. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  "  he  said;  "  won't 
you  have  a  mug  of  cider  ?  " 

"No,  not  to-night;    some  other  time." 

The  round  smock  disappeared  with  three 
strides  of  its  wearer,  for  the  fog  was  thickening. 

"  Let's  go  in,"  said  Louarn. 

While  he  was  closing  the  door,  and  thrusting 
in  the  wooden  bolt  with  its  point  shining 
from  long  use,  his  wife,  more  eager  than  he  to 
look  at  the  letter,  picked  up  from  the  floor 
the  candle  stuck  in  a  bottle  neck,  put  it  on 
the  table,  and  bent  over  it  with  glistening 
eyes. 

"  Tell  me,  Jean,  where  does  the  letter  come 
from  ?  " 

Standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  he 


CLOSERIE   DE   ROS   GRIGNON     15 

turned  the  envelope  over  and  over  in  his 
hands,  held  it  close  to  his  face,  which  was 
long,  thin,  and  clean-shaven  but  for  an  inch 
of  whisker  close  to  his  hair,  and  not  recognizing 
Maitre  Guillon's  writing  : 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  you  read  it,  Donatienne. 
It  isn't  from  him ;  I  can't  understand  printed 
writing." 

And  in  his  turn  he  gazed  at  the  little  Breton 
woman,  reading  quickly,  following  the  lines 
with  swaying  head,  blushing,  trembling,  and 
ending  by  saying  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  wet 
with  tears,  yet  smiling  : 

"  They  want  me  to  go  as  wet-nurse !  " 
Louarn's  face  gloomed;  his  thin  cheeks,  the 
colour  of  the  poor  soil  he  worked  in,  sank. 

"  Who  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  !  some  people,  I  don't  know  who ; 
their  name's  here.  But  the  doctor's  the  one 
at  Saint-Brieuc." 

"  And  when  must  you  go  ?  " 

She  looked  down  at  the  table,  seeing  how 
greatly  Louarn  was  upset. 

'  To-morrow  morning.  They  say  I  am  to 
take  the  first  train.  Really  I  had  left  off 
expecting  it,  man  homme  /  " 


16  THE   PENITENT 

In  fact  they  had  thought  before  Joel's 
birth  that  Donatienne  might  perhaps  find  a 
situation  as  wet-nurse,  like  so  many  relations 
and  neighbours  in  their  native  province,  and 
the  young  woman  had  been  to  see  the  doctor 
at  Saint-Brieuc,  who  had  taken  down  her 
name  and  address. 

But  eight  months  having  gone  by  bringing 
no  answer,  they  had  supposed  their  applica- 
tion to  have  been  forgotten.  The  husband 
alone  had  mentioned  it  once  or  twice,  saying 
in  harvest-time : 

"It's  very  lucky  no  one  wanted  you, 
Donatienne.  How  could  I  have  managed  by 
myself  ?  " 

"  I  had  quite  left  off  expecting  it !  "  re- 
peated the  little  woman,  her  face  lighted  up 
from  beneath  by  the  candle's  light;  "I  am 
surprised,  really  !  " 

And  despite  herself  her  heart  began  to  beat 
quicker  and  the  blood  to  mount  to  her  cheeks ; 
the  bit  of  paper  upon  which  her  eyes  were 
fixed,  seeing  nothing  of  the  words  it  bore, 
brought  her  a  vague  sense  of  joy  of  which  she 
felt  ashamed;  it  seemed  to  offer  her  a  truce 
to  her  misery,  deliverance  from  her  lot  as 


CLOSERIE   DE   ROS   GRIGNON    17 

the  wife  of  a  peasant,  obliged  to  feed  the  man 
and  to  be  everlastingly  busy  with  the  care 
of  the  children  and  the  animals. 

The  weight  of  fatigue  and  weariness  that 
crushed  them  both  seemed  to  be  a  little  lifted 
from  her  shoulders. 

The  stories  told  by  the  women  of  Ploeuc — 
the  way  they  were  loaded  with  attentions 
in  the  towns;  rapid  visions  of  embroidered 
linen,  silken  ribbons,  heaps  of  money;  the 
proud  thought,  too,  that  the  doctor  was 
sending  her  to  a  fine  house  in  Paris — all  this 
coursed  confusedly  through  her  mind  and 
upset  her. 

She  turned  towards  the  two  cradles,  side 
by  side,  standing  by  the  bed  with  its  curtains 
of  green  serge,  and  made  as  if  to  tuck  in 
Lucienne  and  Joel's  sheets. 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  sad,  mon  homme ; 
but,  you  know,  it  won't  last  for  ever." 

He  uttered  no  word  in  answer,  and  no 
shadow  but  her  own  wavered  on  the  wall; 
she  heard  two  drops  of  water  fall  from  the 
thatched  roof  upon  the  flag-stones  outside. 

"  And  then  I  shall  be  earning  money,"  she 
went  on,  **  and  I'll  send  it  to  you.  These 


18  THE   PENITENT 

people  must  be  rich ;  perhaps  they'll  give  me 
some  frocks  for  the  children — they  want 
them  so  badly " 

Once  more  silence  fell  upon  the  house's 
single  room  till  it  seemed  a  dead  thing,  like 
the  woods,  the  wastes  heavy  with  the  dews 
of  the  September  night. 

Donatienne  realized  that  the  feeling  of  joy 
she  had  not  been  able  to  hide  was  gradually 
fading  away,  and  that  there  need  now  be 
nothing  in  her  manner  offensive  to  her 
husband.  She  looked  at  Louarn. 

He  had  not  stirred ;  the  candle's  light  shone 
full  upon  his  blue  eyes,  which,  beneath  his 
bushy  eyebrows,  were  like  patches  of  wan 
mist,  and  wore  the  distressed  look  of  a  poor 
creature  bewildered  by  a  grief  too  great  to 
be  borne. 

They  followed  all  Donatienne's  movements, 
heedless  of  her  smile,  or  her  blush,  or  her 
lingering  about  the  cradles;  they  followed 
her  with  despairing  thoughts,  seeing  nothing 
beyond,  as  if  she  had  been  already  but  a 
distant  vision,  league  upon  league  away  from 
him.  Sailors  wear  the  same  look  when  on  the 
horizon  a  sail  sinks  into  the  boundless  ocean. 


CLOSERIE   DE   ROS   GRIGNON    19 

"  Jean  !  "  she  said;  "  Jean  Louarn  !  " 
He  came  slowly  round  the  table  to  her 
beside  Joel's  cradle,  where  she  stood  motion- 
less ;  he  took  her  hand  and  together,  through 
the  gloom,  they  looked  down  at  the  sleeping 
children,  their  fair  heads  turned  towards  each 
other,  and  half  hidden  by  the  corners  of  the 
pillows  they  pressed. 

"  You'll  look  after  them  well,  won't  you  ?  " 
she  said.  "  He's  so  little,  and  Lucienne's 
so  mischievous ;  you  never  know  what  she's 
after — she  runs  so  quick,  and  I'm  often 
nervous  about  the  well.  You'll  tell  whoever 


comes 

The  man  nodded. 

'  I  was  just  thinking,"  Donatienne  went 
on ;  "  to-morrow  morning  you  can  go  and 
fetch  Annette  Domerc  from  Ploauc.  I  think 
she  would  be  willing  to  be  your  servant.  Do 
you  think  that  would  suit  you  ?  " 

Louarn  shrugged  his  high  shoulders. 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  he  said;  "  I'll 
try  it." 

"  And  I'm  sure  it  will  be  all  right !  you 
mustn't  take  it  so  hard.  All  the  other  women 
hereabouts  do  the  same.  I've  even  been 

B2 


20  THE   PENITENT 

longer  in  getting  it  than  the  others.     I'm 
twenty-four — think  of  that !  " 

She  went  on  talking  rapidly,  giving  pieces 
of  advice  he  did  not  hear,  and  uttering  the 
usual  set  phrases  of  consolation  which  never 
console. 

Then  her  clear  Breton  voice  failed  her ;  her 
breast  heaved  beneath  her  velvet-braided 
bodice;  she  realized  that  there  was  still 
something  left  unsaid,  and  murmured : 

"  My  poor  Jean,  I  know,  I  know  !  " 

He  flung  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and 
holding  her  slender  form  against  his  breast, 
led  her  to  the  recess  of  the  chimney  to  the 
left,  where  stood  a  bench  for  winter  evenings. 

He  let  himself  fall  upon  the  bench,  and 
seating  her  on  his  knee  and  drawing  her  small 
head  upon  his  shoulder,  he  held  her  in  a 
tight  embrace,  as  he  remembered  he  had  done 
on  one  of  the  first  evenings  of  their  marriage, 
finding  now  but  one  word  to  express  his 
anguish,  as  he  then  found  but  one  word  to 
express  his  love : 

"Wife!   Wife!" 

He  did  not  kiss  her  face,  nor  even  try  to 
look  into  it;  but  with  all  his  giant  strength, 


CLOSERIE   DE   ROS   GRIGNON    21 

tiller  of  the  soil  as  he  was,  he  clasped  to  his 
heart  the  woman  who  was  his  own,  while  the 
supreme  tenderness  of  the  fast  approaching 
farewell  flooded  his  whole  being. 

"  O  wife  !  "  he  said  once  more. 

And  that  piteous  cry  spoke  the  passion  of 
his  soul,  and  its  jealous  doubts,  and  the 
misery  he  felt  at  the  sight  of  all  the  objects 
shown  by  the  feeble  rays  of  the  candle — the 
cradles,  the  bed,  the  table,  the  clothes-chest, 
yes,  even  the  stable,  whence  came  at  intervals 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  rubbing  against 
the  boards. 

Without  her,  how  sad  everything  would  be  ! 

Above  them  gaped  the  wide  chimney, 
black  with  soot,  the  mist  slowly  creeping 
down  it. 

Donatienne  had  tried  to  free  herself,  but 
he  would  not  let  her  go ;  and  now  she  herself 
was  seized  by  a  dread  of  the  unknown. 

*  If  I  only  knew  where  you're  going  !  " 
Louarn  had  said. 

But  of  that  they  were  equally  ignorant; 
she  was  to  go  and  he  to  stay ;  and  no  effort 
of  memory,  nothing  either  could  recall  of 
barrack-talk  or  gossip  of  Plceuc  women 


22  THE   PENITENT 

brought  to  them  any  idea,  however  imperfect, 
where  to-morrow  the  mother  of  Noemi, 
Lucienne  and  Joel  would  be. 

A  long  time  passed;  then  the  letter  they 
had  left  upon  the  table  was  caught  by  a  gust 
of  wind  and  slipped  off. 

Then  Louarn,  through  the  chimney-opening, 
noticed  the  lighter  colour  of  the  sky. 

"  The  moon  is  rising  over  the  woods,"  he 
said;  "it's  past  ten  o'clock,  Donatienne." 

They  left  the  chimney-corner,  and  he 
began  to  undress  for  bed,  while  she  went  to 
little  Joel,  who  had  awakened. 

And  soon  the  Night  went  her  way  over 
the  five  sleepers  in  Ros  Grignon ;  one  by  one 
her  stars  travelled  above  the  mist-drenched 
Forest ;  above  the  hillock  that  rose  from  the 
harvested  fields,  and  passed  to  other  fields, 
other  houses,  lost  amongst  the  nameless 
wastes.  It  was  the  dead  of  night — deserted 
roads,  closed  windows,  the  sound  of  the  distant 
swell  of  the  sea  reaching  even  to  the  villages 
farthest  inland. 

All  human  joys  slumbered,  and  well-nigh 
all  human  sorrows,  even  the  hard  struggle 
for  life.  Only  along  the  coasts  of  the  Breton 


CLOSERIE  DE   ROS   GRIGNON     23 

peninsula  the  lights*  of  the  ships  fell  athwart 
each  other  in  the  darkness.  The  earth,  for 
a  time,  had  ceased  to  bewail  herself. 

Jean  Louarn's  homestead  was  silent. 

The  man  slept  uneasily,  a  dream-shudder 
shaking  him  at  moments ;  by  his  side,  slender 
and  rosy-cheeked,  lay  Donatienne,  looking, 
when  a  ray  of  moonlight  fell  across  the  bed, 
like  the  little  figures  of  brides  dressed  in 
shells  they  sell  in  the  small  shops  in  the  town 
below. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE    DEPARTURE 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    DEPARTURE 

THERE  was  no  brightness  at  dawn;  the 
cloud-covered  sky  grew  somewhat  paler,  but 
so  little  that  one  could  not  distinguish  the 
spot  where  the  sun  had  risen. 

An  hour  earlier,  Jean  Louarn  had  left 
Ros  Grignon  for  the  town  of  Ploeuc  to  get 
some  one  to  lend  him  a  cart  and  to  fetch  the 
servant,  Annette  Domerc. 

Donatienne  was  dressing  herself,  while 
Noemi,  who  was  now  beginning  to  be  of  use 
to  her  mother,  was  doing  the  same. 

Sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  locks  of 
hair  from  her  dishevelled  head  falling  into 
her  half-shut  eyes,  the  little  girl  kept  pausing 
in  the  pulling  on  of  her  stockings  or  fastening 
her  frock  while,  with  drooping  head,  over- 
come by  sleep,  she  tried  to  keep  her  balance. 

The  mother,  already  dressed,  stood  gazing 

27 


28  THE   PENITENT 

at  the  three  children  one  after  the  other 
without  a  word.  Mother-love  had  deluged 
her  spirit  and  seized  upon  her  whole  being 
when  Louarn  had  said : 

"It's  five  o'clock — the  dawn  has  come." 

The  thought  that  she  was  about  to  forsake 
these  three  creatures,  born  of  her,  above  all 
that  last,  not  yet  weaned,  tore  her  heart. 
She  gazed  at  them  with  a  secret  dread  that 
perhaps  she  might  never  see  them  again, 
or  at  least,  find  one  less  when  she  returned. 
Which  ? 

Such  fears  must  not  be  dwelt  on;  each 
child  as  she  looked  at  it  in  turn  seemed  to 
be  the  one  threatened  by  that  vague  presenti- 
ment. 

After  a  while  she  went  to  the  chest  where 
she  kept  her  own  and  her  children's  change 
of  clothes — an  armful  of  woollen  garments 
and  a  little  coarse  linen — and  hastily  packed 
up  an  old  petticoat,  a  shawl,  a  chemise 
and  two  caps,  in  a  towel  which  she  fastened 
together  with  two  pins.  That  was  all  she 
took  away  with  her;  the  women  of  the 
countryside  had  advised  her  to  leave  every- 
thing else  at  home,  the  gentlefolks  gave  what 


THE  DEPARTURE  29 

was  wanting.      Even  women  less  poor  than 
she  was  did  the  same. 

"  Hark  !  "  she  said,  intently  listening. 

Noemi,  running  up,  stopped  short;  there 
was  the  sound  of  wheels  coming  up  to  Ros 
Grignon,  but  the  driver  had  still  to  cross 
the  bit  of  stony,  newly-made  road,  some 
hundreds  of  yards  from  the  farmstead,  and 
Donatienne  had  time  to  finish  dressing. 

She  looked  very  nice  in  her  best  dress  of 
many-pleated  black  cloth,  her  white  chemis- 
ette, cut  low  at  the  throat  and  back,  and  her 
neat  roll  of  fair  hair  under  the  butterfly- 
wings  of  her  cap. 

Her  husband  entered,  followed  by  a  puny, 
round-shouldered  girl,  whose  light-coloured 
eyes  almost  matched  her  brown  skin,  and 
who  was  seventeen,  though  she  looked  two 
years  younger. 

"  Good-morning,  Maitresse  Louarn,"  she 
said. 

Donatienne  made  no  answer.  Two  tears, 
so  large  that  they  blinded  her,  had  come  into 
her  eyes. 

She  kissed  Joel,  who  did  not  stir;  then 
Lucienne,  who  turned  over  in  her  cradle; 


30  THE   PENITENT 

she  took  Noemi,  who  came  up  to  her,  wonder- 
ing at  the  tears  she  could  not  understand, 
into  her  arms. 

"  My  little  girl,  my  dear  little  girl,  you'll 
take  care,  too,  won't  you,  of  your  brother 
and  sister  ?  Don't  take  them  too  far  away 
from  the  house.  I  shall  come  back — good- 
bye." 

She  put  the  child  down,  picked  up  her 
bundle  of  clothes  and  a  blue  cotton  umbrella, 
passed  in  front  of  the  bewildered  servant, 
and  climbed  into  the  cart  while  Louarn 
held  the  horse's  bridle. 

Another  minute  and  they  were  descending 
the  slope;  under  the  thatch  the  door  looked 
like  a  black  hole  framing  within  its  gloom 
a  little  brown  figure,  the  fast-fading  vision 
of  a  child. 

A  turn  in  the  road  soon  hid  Ros  Grignon, 
and  Donatienne  was  looking  first  on  the 
uninteresting  property  of  her  neighbours, 
then  on  that  of  unknown  people,  and  finally, 
on  trees  and  hollow  roads  of  which  she  knew 
nothing.  Louarn  seemed  entirely  taken  up 
with  driving. 

They  were  making  for  1' Hermit  age  station, 


THE   DEPARTURE  31 

the  nearest  to  Ros  Grignon,  driving  through 
the  clinging  morning  mist  which  hung  so 
low  that  the  tops  of  the  oaks  and  apple-trees 
seemed  to  be  tangled  in  smoke. 

On  a  slope  some  short  distance  from  the 
town,  Jean  Louarn  bent  towards  his  wife 
and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  You'll  write  to  me,"  he  said,  "  so  that  I 
may  know  where  you  are.  I  shall  be  terribly 
anxious  about  you,  Donatienne." 

"Of  course,"  replied  the  young  woman; 
"  and  you'll  send  me  all  the  news,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  kiss  him,  hindered  by  the 
austere  traditions  of  Brittany  and  by  the 
fear  of  eyes  peeping  from  behind  the  bushes. 

The  cart  stopped  at  the  station  as  the 
9.30  train  from  Pontivy  came  in.  There 
was  only  just  time  to  run  to  the  ticket  window, 
the  man  carrying  the  white  bundle,  the 
woman  struggling  to  open  the  purse  with  its 
tarnished  brass  clasps. 

They  rushed  through  the  waiting-room, 
bumping  against  corners,  though  neither  was 
over-loaded ;  Donatienne  climbed  into  a  third- 
class  carriage  where  a  porter  was  holding  a 
door  open. 


32  THE   PENITENT 

"  Good-bye  !  "  said  Louarn. 

She  did  not  hear  him.  He  saw  the  pretty 
rosy  face,  the  brown  eyes,  the  fluttering  wings 
of  the  cap,  pass  behind  the  glittering  windows 
of  the  carriage,  and  stood  motionless  on  the 
platform,  watching  the  swift  flight  of  the 
train  that  was  carrying  Donatienne  away. 


CHAPTER   III 
THE  ROAD  TO  PARIS 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   ROAD   TO   PARIS 

HE  came  back  alone,  thinking  of  her. 

For  her  part,  Donatienne,  who  had  thrown 
herself  into  a  corner,  her  head  turned  towards 
the  landscape,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  was 
pretty  soon  interested  in  the  talk — in  French 
or  Breton — going  on  around  her,  and  in  the 
names  of  the  first  stations  after  1' Hermitage 
as  they  were  shouted  out  along  the  train. 

People  got  into  the  carriage  of  whom  she 
knew  something,  or  else  she  could  decide 
from  what  district  they  came,  sometimes  by 
the  women's  head-dress,  sometimes  by  the 
way  in  which  the  men's  jackets  were  braided 
or  embroidered. 

A  woman  sitting  beside  her,  who  wore  the 
Lamballe  cap,  asked  her  if  she  were  going 
far. 

"  As  far  as  Paris,"  said  Donatienne. 

"  To  be  a  wet-nurse,  perhaps  ?  " 
02  35 


36  THE   PENITENT 

"  Yes ;  I've  left  my  three  children,  Noemi, 
Lucienne  and  Joel.  He's  not  very  big  yet, 
as  you  may  suppose." 

She  described  them  all  to  the  sympathizing 
woman,  and  felt  the  better  for  the  talk  with 
another  mother,  who  could  understand. 

The  novelty  of  it  all  interested  her,  too, 
and  gave  her  many  opportunities  for  wonder, 
considering  her  absolute  ignorance,  having 
never  seen  anything  but  a  corner  of  the  dis- 
trict of  Yffiniac  and  another  of  the  district 
of  Plceuc. 

She  noticed,  for  instance,  that  the  farther 
they  got  from  Ros  Grignon,  the  stronger 
built  were  the  cattle,  and  that  there  was  less 
gorse  and  more  hawthorn  hedges. 

At  Rennes  she  had  to  wait  three  hours. 
A  woman,  seeing  that  she  was  already  wreary 
and  giddy  with  the  motion  of  the  train,  took 
her  to  get  a  glass  of  milk  in  a  cheap  restaurant 
near  the  station, — a  fat,  jovial,  wrinkled 
old  woman,  one  of  that  kindly,  vulgar  sort 
that  judge  of  people's  honesty  by  their  looks 
and  give  help  without  thought  of  profit, 
because  they  can't  help  it. 

They  visited   a  church  together  and  the 


37 

public  gardens,  and  when  they  parted,  each 
felt  a  sort  of  affection  for  the  other.  Dona- 
tienne had  a  vague  sense  of  having  kissed 
her  dear  familiar  Brittany  and  said  good-bye 
to  it,  when,  on  getting  into  the  train,  she 
left  the  old  woman  shedding  tears  over  the 
lot  of  this  young  stranger  venturing  so  far 
from  the  Breton  land. 

The  region  of  small,  sloping  meadows 
bordered  with  elms,  and  fields  of  buckwheat 
divided  by  apple-trees,  was  soon  passed,  and 
the  train  was  running  through  the  rich  lands 
of  Mayenne  and  la  Sarthe.  Donatienne,  her 
head  against  the  window,  gazed  at  them 
absorbed  in  the  sad  thoughts  they  suggested 
of  other  things  she  had  always  known. 

But  when  two-thirds  of  the  interminable 
journey  were  gone,  night  fell.  The  purple 
mists  which  since  the  morning  had  hung 
like  a  crown  along  the  horizon,  all  at  once 
closed  in  on  every  side,  drawing  their  circle 
ever  nearer,  and  surrounding  the  train  as  it 
rushed  along  at  its  highest  speed. 

Then  Donatienne  felt  she  was  losing  the 
last  occupation  for  her  eyes  and  her  mind ;  she 
could  not  reason  about  her  terror;  she  cast 

335G33 


38  THE   PENITENT 

a  frightened  look  at  her  chance  companions, 
and  then  quickly  turned  her  eyes  again  to 
the  shadow-invaded  fields. 

She  reckoned  that  now  only  four  lengths 
of  hedge  were  visible;  now  but  three;  then 
only  a  narrow  strip  beside  the  line.  She 
endeavoured  to  make  out  the  shape  of  the 
few  habitations  scattered  in  the  darkness 
and  shown  by  the  light  from  low-placed 
windows,  and  wished  she  could  go  into  one 
of  them  and  find  herself  all  at  once  sheltered 
in  some  warm  room  amongst  those  who  sat 
together  there. 

At  last  she  could  stand  it  no  longer;  she 
shut  her  eyes,  thinking  with  terror  of  the  long 
way  she  had  still  to  go — through  the  night— 
amongst  chance  companions,  shaken  like  her- 
self and  dazed  with  the  jolting  of  the  carriage. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  seat,  under  the  dim  light  of 
the  lamp,  she  saw  a  young  woman  holding  on 
her  knee  by  one  arm  a  little  white  bundle. 
Her  skirt  was  turned  up  into  thick  folds 
round  her  waist,  and  two  fingers  of  the  other 
hand  still  held  an  open  newspaper  which 
the  traveller  had  tried  to  read,  but  which, 


THE   ROAD   TO   PARIS  39 

little   by   little,    had   dropped   towards   the 
bundle  and  now  nearly  covered  it. 

Donatienne  got  up  and  drew  near  once  or 
twice,  but  was  afraid.  The  stranger  raised 
her  head,  a  little  alarmed  at  first;  then  her 
look  softened  and  she  smiled  at  Donatienne' s 
youthful  face  and  countrified  cap.  Guessing 
at  the  unasked  question,  she  laid  down  the 
paper,  and  said: 

"It's  my  child — a  little  girl;  she's  been 
asleep  since  le  Mans." 

"I'm  a  mother,  too,"  said  Donatienno; 
"I'm  going  to  Paris  as  a  wet-nurse." 

She  took  the  doctor's  letter  from  her 
bodice. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  young  woman;  "  Boule- 
vard Malesherbes  I  They  must  be  rich 
people." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  one  of  the  finest  quarters  of 
Paris.  You're  lucky  !  " 

"And  you?"  asked  Donatienne;  "are 
you  going  to  Paris,  too  ?  " 

"  No — close  here,  to  Versailles." 

"  Perhaps    you're    going    to    meet    your 
husband  ?  " 


40  THE   PENITENT 

The  stranger  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then 
said  in  the  same  very  sweet  voice,  only  a 
little  lower  : 

"  I  have  no  husband." 

They  were  both  silent  then,  as  though  the 
words  had  been  a  sort  of  plaintive  mutual 
farewell,  and  they  made  no  further  attempt 
to  speak  to  each  other. 

Donatienne  went  back  to  her  corner,  so 
absorbed  by  the  new  ideas  struggling  in  her 
mind  that  she  did  not  even  notice  the  stranger 
get  out  at  the  Versailles  station. 

Of  the  little  confidence  which  had  touched 
her  for  a  moment,  there  was  left  but  one 
thing,  growing  larger  and  larger  and  filling 
her  with  proud  delight — the  idea  of  Paris 
now  so  near  and  of  the  wealth  that  would  at 
last  surround  her. 

She  was  close  now  to  that  mysterious  great 
city,  already  showing  proof  of  its  nearness 
in  the  crimson  glow  that  hung  in  the  sky  in 
front  of  her,  and  in  the  thousands  of  gas-jets, 
which  momentarily  broke,  like  sparks,  the 
darkness  of  the  openings  between  the  hills. 

Like  the  daughter  of  a  sailor-race  she 
was,  Donatienne  felt  its  approach  with  a 


THE   ROAD   TO   PARIS  41 

quivering  of  her  whole  being ;  after  her  fashion 
she  was  experiencing  the  eager  impatience 
of  her  ancestors,  rovers  over  great  seas, 
whose  dream-haunted  blood  had  burnt  with 
envy  at  the  sight  of  new  countries. 

Like  them,  too,  she  was  leaving  behind  her 
a  poor  home,  a  monotonous  life — burdens 
from  which  her  journey  would  free  her. 

Tossed  to  and  fro  by  the  crossing  of  the 
points,  dazzled  by  the  signal-lights  outside 
the  station,  stupefied  by  the  clamour  of  the 
wheels  and  the  whistling  of  the  engines, 
oblivious  of  her  weariness,  even  of  the  little 
far-off  homeland  lost  amid  its  furze-bushes, 
she  smiled,  younger,  fairer,  floating  on  a 
dream- wave  of  hope  and  joy. 

An  old  maid-servant  was  waiting  for  her 
at  the  station;  a  brougham  was  standing 
outside;  they  got  into  the  carriage,  the 
bundle  containing  the  nurse's  clothes  between 
them. 

Donatienne  gave  short  answers  to  her 
companion's  questions,  looking  all  the  time 
out  of  the  window  at  the  streets — the  many 
long,  long  streets  that  seemed  to  be  flying 
beneath  her. 


42  THE   PENITENT 

In  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  Paris 
was  alive,  bright,  noisy;  as  they  crossed  the 
Seine,  she  thought  she  was  looking  at  the 
most  beautiful  fireworks  she  had  ever  seen; 
as  they  drove  through  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, she  pointed  to  the  Champs  Elysees 
and  asked : 

"  Is  that  a  forest  ?  " 

She  watched  for  the  enormous  houses 
with  their  closed  doors,  and  turned  to  look 
back  at  them  as  they  disappeared  from  sight 
as  if  each  might  have  been  "  hers." 

And  her  heart  beat  fast  with  the  sense 
that  she  was  at  home  here,  the  goal  of  her 
journey,  as  her  fathers  had  felt  more  than 
once  in  their  lives  of  adventure. 

When  she  heard  the  opening  of  the 
massive  oaken  door  of  the  house  wherein 
she  was  to  serve,  and  getting  out  of  the 
brougham,  breathed  the  warm  air  of  the 
porch  filled  with  the  scent  of  hothouse 
flowers,  she  looked  so  radiant,  so  apart  from 
past  poverty,  that  the  woman  with  her  leant 
over  the  concierges  window  and  said  : 

"  Here's  some  one  who'll  soon  make  herself 
at  home ;  you  mark  my  words  !  " 


THE   ROAD   TO   PARIS  43 

They  went  up  the  servants'  staircase. 

•  •  •  •  • 

And  well-nigh  at  the  same  moment,  before 
the  dawn  had  broken  over  the  land  of  Ploeuc 
in  Brittany,  the  tall  figure  of  Jean  Louarn 
stood  erect  upon  the  hill  of  Ros  Grignon. 

He  had  not  slept;  it  was  better  to  go  out 
to  work  at  once  or  wander  about  the  woods 
than  to  stay  in  this  room  too  full  of  her 
presence ;  and,  for  a  while,  spade  on  shoulder, 
he  gazed  into  the  darkness  beneath  him,  as 
if  calculating  the  task  to  be  done;  then  he 
sighed  and  went  down  the  slope. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  CLEARING   OF  THE   WASTE 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   WASTE 

Six  months  had  passed  and  the  sky  was 
letting  fall  its  spring  rains  in  frequent,  short- 
lived showers  whose  tiny  drops  rebounded 
from  the  ground  and  hung  upon  the  blades  of 
the  sprouting  wheat. 

Louarn  was  coming  back  from  the  Forest 
where  he  had  been  working  since  November, 
having  hired  himself  out  as  a  woodcutter  for 
two  days  in  each  week.  The  day's  work  was 
finished,  the  last  load  of  faggots  rumbling 
down  the  rutted  roads,  and  from  time  to 
time,  borne  on  the  quiet  air,  came  the  sound 
of  distant  bells,  exquisitely  sweet  as  if  the 
angels  were  already  announcing  Easter  a 
little  beforehand. 

He  walked  along  the  long  cutting  he  had 
despoiled  bush  by  bush  and  which  had 

marked  the  line  between  his  own  land  and  the 

47 


48  THE   PENITENT 

new  border  of  undergrowth;  and  he  thought 
of  the  days  that  had  gone  since  Donatienne's 
departure. 

It  had  been  a  hard  winter,  and  he  had  had 
no  help  in  digging  the  field  before  sowing  his 
wheat,  or  a  strip  under  the  apple-trees  for 
his  buckwheat,  or  the  other,  where  the  soil 
was  poor  and  stony,  for  the  oats. 

Of  course,  even  in  past  days,  Donatienne 
had  not  been  able  to  help  him  very  greatly ; 
her  arms  were  not  strong  enough  to  wield  a 
spade  and  the  care  of  the  children  kept  her 
in  the  house;  but  still  she  had  been  useful 
in  the  seed-sowing;  in  all  the  district  of 
Plceuc  there  could  not  be  found  a  surer  or 
more  nimble  hand  than  hers.  When  the 
furrows  were  made,  she  would  come  into 
the  fields  there,  four  or  even  eight  days  in 
succession,  if  need  were. 

She  would  hold  up  her  apron  by  one  corner 
to  her  waist,  fill  it  with  seed,  walk  along 
slowly,  with  parted  fingers,  the  seed  falling 
in  a  long  line;  and  where  Donatienne  had 
sown,  the  crops  came  up  more  evenly  than 
anywhere  else. 

But  this  year  the  mistress  of  Ros  Grignon 


THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   WASTE    49 

was  far  away  when  the  grain  was  sown; 
there  was  no  talk  of  her  return  at  the  beginning 
of  March  when  the  wheat  began  to  show  its 
green  blades  and  the  buckwheat  its  tiny 
leaflets  of  pink. 

And  the  house  itself  witnessed  to  her 
absence.  Annette  Domerc  had  no  sense  of 
order,  all  she  cared  for  was  to  ramble  about 
the  roads  with  the  three  children,  leaving  the 
farmstead  as  soon  as  Louarn  had  gone  out,  to 
pick  up  apples  or  gossip  with  the  village  folk ; 
and  the  farmer  could  not  get  used  to  the 
appearance  of  the  sullen  girl  who  said  nothing 
when  she  was  scolded,  never  spoke  of  what 
she  was  doing,  and  too  often  mumbled  remarks 
about  the  women  of  the  place  unsuitable  to 
her  youth. 

But,  as  he  paid  her  very  little,  he  kept  her 
on. 

It  was  a  melancholy  winter,  all  the  sadder 
for  the  feelings  he  had  to  keep  religiously  to 
himself. 

It  was  really  this  girl  who  had  made  him 
realize  that  Donatienne  wrote  but  seldom; 
otherwise  he  might  scarce  have  noticed  it, 
overdone  with  work  as  he  was  and  having  no 


50  THE   PENITENT 

scale  of  comparison.  But  it  was  true — she 
did  write  but  little,  and  her  letters  were  very 
short. 

He  always  carried  the  last  about  with  him, 
sometimes  three  or  four  weeks  old,  and  when 
he  was  by  himself,  and  unseen  by  any  one 
at  Ros  Grignon,  he  would  read  it  over  again, 
endeavouring  to  make  a  mental  picture  of 
the  things  she  mentioned. 

"  Madame  took  me  to  the  races ;  there  was 
sucL  a  crowd  there  that  I  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it.  One  day  I  went  to  a 
matinee  at  the  theatre  with  Honorine  the 
first  parlour-maid." 

Besides  it  was  only  once  that  she  had  sent 
money,  about  the  middle  of  January  when 
Mademoiselle  Penhoat's  rent-collector,  M. 
Guillon,  had  threatened  to  seize  everything 
in  payment  of  the  three  years'  amount 
owing;  and  the  following  week,  on  receiving 
only  the  half  of  the  arrears  of  rent,  as  he 
left  he  had  declared  that  payment  in  full  at 
the  end  of  July  was  the  last  concession  to  be 
granted. 

'  You'd   better   have   kept   your   wife   at 
home,  or  found  her  a  situation  hereabouts. 


THE   CLEARING   OF  THE   WASTE    51 

Do  you  know  where  she  is  living  ?  So  young 
as  she  is  ! " 

Louarn  had  looked  at  him  with  those 
dreamy  eyes  of  the  Breton  who  takes  long  to 
comprehend  townsfolk;  but  the  words  had 
left  in  his  heart  a  doubt  and  a  kind  of  vague 
regret — one  more  to  add  to  so  many  others  ! 

He  had  left  the  Forest  and  turned  a  corner 
of  the  waste  land  into  the  path  which  led 
straight  up  to  Ros  Grignon.  The  depth  of  the 
shadow  thrown  upon  the  ground  by  the 
masses  of  gorse  and  broom  that  grew  on  it 
unchecked  struck  him  for  the  first  time. 
Since  the  cutting  of  the  undergrowth  they 
seemed  to  have  become  even  more  vigorous, 
and  it  could  be  more  clearly  seen  to  what  a 
height  they  had  grown,  some  of  them  stood 
a  foot  above  the  farmer's  head. 

Jean  Louarn  stopped,  and  dividing  the 
branches  with  his  elbow,  looked  searchingly 
into  the  thicket.  The  soil  still  bore  the 
traces  of  old  furrows,  bare,  cracked,  excavated 
by  insects  and  field  mice,  and  here  and  there 
—knotted,  running  over  with  sap,  branched 
like  trees — rose  the  green  stems  of  the  broom 
and  the  grey  stems  of  the  gorse,  whose  top- 

D2 


52  THE   PENITENT 

most  branches  above  in  the  free  air  were 
already  swelling  with  pale-hued  thorns  and 
reddening  buds. 

"  Our  forefathers  cultivated  this  waste," 
thought  Louarn ;  "  suppose  I  did  likewise  ? 
It  might  bring  in  something." 

He  took  a  dozen  steps  backwards,  looking 
at  his  crops,  and  trying  to  imagine  the  fine 
effect  it  would  make  as  a  whole  when  the 
waste  land  had  disappeared,  and  thinking, 
because  she  was  never  out  of  his  thoughts  : 

"  Wouldn't  Donatienne  be  surprised  !  " 

He  had  scarcely  got  into  the  room  at  Ros 
Grignon  when  Annette  Domerc,  who  was 
sitting  in  a  low  chair  near  the  fire,  pointed  to 
the  table. 

"  There's  a  letter  come  at  last,  M.  Louarn ; 
the  mistress  has  written  to  you." 

He  threw  down  the  iron  fork  he  was 
carrying,  eagerly  seized  the  letter  and  went 
back  to  the  threshold,  where  the  light  was 
still  strong,  to  read  it. 

Another  moment  and  he  would  have 
thought  that  Donatienne' s  letter  was  very 
short;  but  she  wrote  :  "  I  am  happy,  except 
that  I  miss  the  children.  Kiss  them  all  for 


THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   WASTE    53 

me;"  and  he  was  so  greatly  in  need  of 
happiness,  he  felt  so  strongly  drawn  to  her 
by  the  idea  of  the  new  scheme  the  thought  of 
her  had  inspired,  that  he  forgot  everything 
but  that  she  had  written,  she  had  not  for- 
gotten Ros  Grignon,  she  had  begged  the 
father  to  kiss  the  little  ones. 

Satisfied,  he  put  Donatienne's  letter  into 
his  jacket-pocket,  came  back  into  the  house, 
and  kissed  Noemi  and  Lucienne,  who  were 
playing  near  the  chest. 

*  You  darlings  !  "  he  said,  lifting  them  up 
one  after  the  other;  "  Maman  says  I  am  to 
kiss  you  for  her.  You  remember  Maman 
Donatienne,  don't  you  ?  " 

As  he  bent  over  Joel,  lying  asleep  on  the 
servant's  knee,  he  heard  Annette  Domerc's 
shrill  little  giggle  and  felt  the  touch  of  her 
tousled  hair  which  she  seldom  kept  neatly 
under  cap. 

"It's  good  news  Maitresse  Louarn  sends, 
then  ?  "  she  asked;  "  I  suppose  she's  coming 
back  ?  " 

Louarn  stood  upright  and  from  his  great 
height  looked  down  on  the  girl  who  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  queer  sort  of  smile  on  her  face 


54  THE   PENITENT 

and  eyes  where  gleams  came  and  went  as  in 
the  eyes  of  a  cat. 

"  How  can  you  imagine  she  can  come 
back?"  said  the  farmer;  "she  is  still 
nursing." 

"  Oh,  I  thought — you  looked  so  cheerful !  " 

Annette's  countenance  had  resumed  its 
usual  expression  of  vague  boredom,  and 
Louarn  longing  to-night,  for  once  in  his  life, 
to  confide  in  some  one  and  share  his  taste  of 
hope  and  happiness,  left  the  girl,  and  seating 
himself  at  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  on  the 
sloping  wooden  edge  of  the  bed,  he  called 
Noemi,  his  eldest  child,  who  might  perhaps 
understand  a  little,  and  put  her  in  front  of 
him. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  said  gently,  "I've 
got  an  idea;  you  know  the  piece  of  waste 
land  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Papa." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  cut  it  all  down;  I'm 
not  going  to  leave  a  blade  of  poor  grass 
standing.  I'm  going  to  do  it  all  by  myself. 
Then  I'll  dig  the  earth  and  trench  it,  and  it 
will  all  be  done  by  the  time  Maman  Dona- 
tienne  comes  back.  Won't  she  be  glad  when 


THE   CLEARING   OF  THE   WASTE    55 

she  sees  a  field  of  potatoes  or  colza  there  ! 
I  think  I  shall  put  in  colza.  Don't  you  think 
she'll  be  pleased  ?  " 

"  But  the  nests  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"  I'll  give  them  to  you." 

He  noticed  how  Noemi's  eyes  lighted  up 
with  pleasure,  and  in  his  secret  heart  felt  as 
if  it  were  the  absent  one  who  smiled  on  him  in 
encouragement. 

He  kept  the  child  up,  making  merry  with 
her,  though  he  was  taciturn  by  nature,  and 
not  given  to  caresses,  trying  to  make  her 
laugh  that  he  might  again  see  the  brightening 
of  her  eyes. 

Next  day  he  began  upon  the  waste,  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  dark,  gold-crested  line  it 
made  in  front  of  Ros  Grignon. 

Standing  upright  at  the  bottom  of  the 
grass-grown  trench  around  the  gorse-bushes, 
he  leant  his  knee  against  the  side,  and  taking 
his  newly-ground  bill-hook,  lifted  it  at  arm's 
length  and  brought  it  down  on  the  tough, 
twisted  stems  of  the  bush,  whose  enormous 
branches  spread  abroad  like  tossed  hay. 
The  whole  waste  seemed  to  tremble;  a  gust 
of  wind  blew  its  head  about;  two  blackbirds 


56  THE   PENITENT 

flew  out  with  shrill  cries,  and  Louarn  could 
hear  the  rustling  of  a  thousand  invisible 
insects  as  they  ran  for  their  holes. 

He  smiled  as  he  raised  his  bill-hook  again, 
and  again  he  struck  at  the  same  spot,  widening 
the  gaping  rent,  white  chips  flying  around, 
then  felt  the  heavy  mass  of  branches  quiver, 
and  stepped  backwards  while,  with  a  con- 
vulsive shudder,  it  fell  to  the  ground,  all  its 
blossoms  uppermost. 

The  children,  who  with  Annette  Domerc 
were  watching  him  from  the  top  of  the  hill, 
clapped  their  hands.  Louarn  chopped  off 
the  fibres  left  on  the  bark,  threw  the  gorse- 
bush  aside,  and  went  farther  in  upon  the  waste. 

By  noon  there  could  be  seen  amongst  the 
dense  brushwood  a  clear  circle  half  as  large 
as  the  room  at  the  Farm. 

Under  the  heat  of  the  sun,  already  great, 
that  day  and  the  days  that  followed,  he  went 
on  with  his  work  with  passionate  eagerness. 
In  spite  of  his  sheep-skin  gloves,  his  hands 
were  covered  with  blood ;  in  spite  of  his  long 
inurement  to  toil,  he  was  worn  out  when  he 
came  in  at  dusk,  picking  out,  one  by  one,  the 
thorns  that  had  pierced  his  fingers. 


THE   CLEARING  OF   THE   WASTE    57 

Yet  he  would  say,  with  a  kind  of  joyful 
pride  : 

"It's  been  a  hard  day ;  but  after  fifty 
more  like  it,  or  even  forty-five,  the  job  will 
be  getting  on." 

Annette  Domerc  looked  at  him  without 
speaking;  Noemi  was  not  listening;  the 
fire  was  going  out  under  the  tripod  where  the 
kettle  had  stood,  and  he  said  again,  answered 
by  nothing  but  his  own  thoughts  that  had 
flown  far  from  Ros  Grignon : 

"  Fifty  more — perhaps  only  forty-five." 

The  fine  days  of  summer  had  begun  and 
the  country  around  Ros  Grignon  was  green ; 
the  apple-trees  looked  like  the  primrose-balls 
children  make  in  the  spring.  In  daytime 
the  bees  pillaged  them,  and  at  night  there 
was  a  scent  of  honey  in  the  poor  room  and  the 
rosy  petals  were  blown  in  at  the  door  and 
drifted  under  the  beds. 

Louarn,  writing  to  his  wife,  told  her  about 
it;  she  had  not  answered  his  last  letters  and 
her  silence  made  him  anxious. 

He  was  afraid  Annette  Domerc  might 
guess  what  he  was  thinking,  for  she  seemed 
to  be  watching  him. 


58  THE   PENITENT 

So  then  he  wrote  that  it  would  be  a  good 
year  for  cider,  hoping  that  Donatienne  would 
rejoice  at  the  news  and  write  to  thank  him. 
But  nothing  came. 

He  had  made  great  way  with  the  clearing 
of  the  waste  and  there  was  nothing  left  but 
a  strip  of  gorse  along  the  Forest,  when  the 
oats  beyond  the  apple-trees  began  to  ripen. 
So  light  a  crop,  so  easily  lost  !  Louarn  forsook 
his  bill-hook  and  took  up  his  sickle. 

The  ears  in  their  turn  fell  as  the  waste-land 
bushes  had  done,  and  presently  stood  up 
again  in  sheaves;  the  buckwheat  unfolded 
its  thousands  of  white  blossoms.  The  over- 
powering heat  of  July  strained  the  man's 
sweating  loins,  bowed  to  his  harvesting,  and 
the  evenings  were  long;  still  not  too  long, 
for  Louarn  was  still  waiting  for  the  letter 
which  did  not  come. 

Day  after  day  he  hoped  for  it,  lying  in 
wait  outside  his  house  until  night  had  quite 
fallen  over  the  fields  and  the  Forest. 

When  any  one  questioned  him  he  made 
shift  to  answer : 

"  Oh  yes  !  I've  had  news  of  her — she's 
quite  well." 


THE   CLEARING   OF   THE   WASTE    59 

And  this  was  quite  true,  for  a  cousin  of 
his,  a  man  who  sold  eggs  and  poultry,  having 
passed  Ros  Grignon  on  his  way  back  from 
Yffiniac,  had  brought  him  this  news  which 
he  had  heard  from  Donatiemie's  relations — 
"  the  Moulin-Haye  folk "  as  he  called  them. 

But  no  word  had  come  to  comfort  the 
clearer  of  the  waste,  the  harvester  of  the 
sheaves,  the  husband  dream-haunted  and 
feverish  with  fatigue,  whose  tears  fell  silently 
through  the  short  summer  nights. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  DISTRAINT 


CHAPTER  V 

THE     DISTBAINT 

A  FEW  days  before  the  end  of  July,  the 
bailiff  who  had  come  a  week  earlier  to  demand 
from  Louarn  the  payment  of  his  arrears  of 
rent,  returned  to  seize  the  furniture  in  the 
name  of  Mademoiselle  Penhoat. 

As  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  him,  two 
witnesses  with  him,  coming  up  the  road  to 
Ros  Grignon,  Louarn  ceased  reaping  the 
wheat,  now  quite  ripe,  and  of  which  he  had 
cut  but  one  row.  He  stuck  the  point  of  his 
sickle  into  the  ground,  and  walked  to  the 
very  end  of  the  waste  land,  where  he  stood, 
his  back  against  an  enormous  broom-bush, 
one  of  the  last  left  standing  at  the  skirt  of 
the  Forest. 

There,  with  crossed  arms,  whence  he  could 
see  the  whole  of  the  farmstead — the  few 

acres  which  had  meant  so  much  toil,  so  much 

63 


64  THE   PENITENT 

poverty,  all  he  had  had  of  earthly  affection 
and  all  of  hope  he  still  kept — he  waited. 

The  bailiff  left  the  men  who  were  with 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  hillock,  and  walked 
towards  the  farmer.  He  looked  as  poor  as 
the  peasant  upon  whom  he  had  to  serve  the 
writ.  He  wore  a  thread-bare  jacket  and  a 
battered  felt  hat,  and  as  he  stumbled  over 
the  furrows  he  kept  raising  his  gaunt  head, 
framed  in  two  white  whiskers,  to  see  if  Louarn 
would  let  him  come  right  across  the  field  with- 
out troubling  himself  to  take  a  step  forwards. 

But  Louarn  never  moved;  it  was  not  until 
they  were  separated  by  only  a  couple  of 
furrows  that  he  drew  himself  up,  with  a  jerk 
of  his  shoulders  that  shook  the  broom-bush 
and  said,  his  teeth  clenched  with  emotion  : 

"  So  you've  come  back  to  seize  my  goods  ?  " 

"  Yes — Mademoiselle     Penhoat    has    sent 


"I'm  not  blaming  you,"  interrupted 
Louarn;  "you're  only  doing  what's  right, 
since  it's  your  trade.  But  you're  a  man, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  so  that 
you  may  judge  for  yourself.  Look  before 
you,  right  and  left,  to  the  end  of  the  slope." 


THE   DISTRAINT  65 

The  astonished  bailiff  stared  first  at  the 
tall  peasant,  so  unlike  the  ordinary  style  of 
debtor,  and  then  at  the  naked  soil  and  its 
projecting  sharp-pointed  roots  showing  the 
traces  of  the  axe. 

"I've  been  working  for  three  months  at 
this  brushwood  which  has  torn  my  hands 
to  pieces.  Now  look  behind  you  at  the 
underwood  I  hewed  down  last  winter.  Look 
at  my  ripe  wheat,  and  my  buckwheat. 
You  can't  say  I've  been  lazy,  can  you  ?  You 
can't  say  that." 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I've  done  all  that  for  my  children, 
and  for  my  wife  who  is  still  with  rich  people 
in  Paris.  You  see,  don't  you,  that  she 
can't  let  me  be  sold  up  like  a  beggar  ?  " 

"  She  ought  to  pay  up,  of  course,"  said 
the  bailiff. 

"  How  much  time  longer  will  you  give 
me?" 

"  To-day's  Tuesday,  Maitre  Louarn ;  I'll 
advertise  the  sale  for  Sunday  week." 

"You  will  be  paid,"  said  Louarn;  "I'll 
send  her  a  telegram — and  she'll  answer  it." 

As  he  spoke  his  whole  body  shook  and  his 


66  THE   PENITENT 

voice  was  low  and  broken  by  tears  as  he 
said,  "She  will  answer;"  but  he  did  not 
weep,  but  only  lifted  his  head  a  little  and 
looked  towards  Ros  Grignon. 

The  bailiff  could  not  see  Louarn's  eyes 
now,  and  was  making  ready  to  read  out 
clauses  of  his  legal  document,  when  he  felt 
the  farmer's  hand  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  read  out  your  paper,"  said  Louarn ; 
"  I  won't  listen  to  it,  I  won't  sign  anything. 
I  know  I  owe  more  than  I  possess  to  Made- 
moiselle Penhoat  and  other  people  in  Plceuc 
who've  given  me  credit.  Go  into  my  house 
by  yourself." 

"  But  I  shall  want  you,  Maitre  Louarn." 

;t  No,  you  won't  want  me.  You  can  put 
down  everything  you  find  on  your  list — the 
bed,  the  table,  the  cow " 

"  But  you  have  the  right  to  keep— 


"  I  tell  you  put  down  everything  !  "  said 
the  farmer  angrily,  as  he  pointed  to  the 
house ;  put  down  the  chairs,  the  gilt  ornaments 
and  the  wedding-garments,  and  the  silk 
apron  that's  in  the  chest." 

"  But  Maitre  Louarn,  I  never  knew  any- 
body who — 


THE   DISTRAINT  67 

"  Put  down  the  two  caps  she  bought  a 
month  before  she  went  away  with  the  money 
she  got  for  her  spinning,  and  her  spinning- 
wheel  that's  hanging  from  the  beams.  All 
those  came  to  me  with  Donatienne,  and  if 
she  didn't  answer,  you  must  see,  you  bailiff— 
now  you  know  all  that  I  have  done  for  her 
sake,  that  I  couldn't  keep  anything  she 
brought  me.  No,  indeed,  I  couldn't  keep 
the  very  smallest  thing  that's  there  !  Put 
it  all  down." 

The  bailiff  shrugged  his  shoulders,  guessing 
at  a  more  than  common  trouble  which 
moved  him  vaguely,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  folded  his  papers  and  turned  to  go. 

'  There's  only  one  thing  I'll  keep,"  said 
Louarn ;  "  the  portrait  that  hangs  on  the 
wall.  No  one  but  I  has  any  right  to  it." 

The  man  nodded  assent  without  turning, 
and  went  on  his  way  towards  Ros  Grignon; 
little  Noemi,  standing  at  the  open  door,  ran 
in  crying  with  fright. 

Louarn  strode  along  the  road  to  Plceuc. 
As  he  was  seen  passing  the  first  houses, 
staring  straight  in  front  of  him  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  who  pays  no  heed  to  the  direction 


E2 


68  THE   PENITENT 

in  which  he  goes,  the  housewives  came  out 
upon  their  doorsteps. 

They  were  aware  that  the  bailiff  had 
started  for  Ros  Grignon;  some  of  them  did 
not  speak  but  assumed  an  air  of  pity  after 
Louarn  had  passed;  others,  especially  the 
younger  women,  joked  in  whispers  to  each 
other.  A  chorus  of  allusions  and  scandal 
arose  behind  his  back,  like  a  cloud  of 
dust. 

News  about  Donatienne — news  of  which  he 
was  ignorant — had  got  about  in  the  village 
and  awakened  the  curiosity  of  its  people  as 
to  the  man's  arrival. 

He  heard  nothing,  until  at  the  crossroads 
where  he  turned  towards  the  post-office,  the 
baker's  wife,  who  was  newly  married  and 
thoughtless  in  talk,  said  aloud  to  a  group  of 
people  : 

"  Poor  fellow  !  he  must  have  heard  that 
the  child  is  dead,  and  Donatienne " 

At  the  sound  of  his  wife's  name,  Louarn 
awoke  as  from  a  dream,  and  the  look  he  gave 
the  little  shopkeeper  was  so  bewildered  with 
wonder  that  she  blushed  to  the  wings  of  her 
cap  and  went  back  into  her  shop. 


THE   DISTRAINT  69 

But  men,  who  had  been  standing  about 
in  groups,  all  of  whom  he  knew,  turned  their 
heads  away  and  separated  for  fear  that  he 
might  speak  to  them. 

"  The  child  is  dead  !  "  The  words  clutched 
at  Louarn's  heart.  "  The  child  is  dead  !  ': 
When  did  it  die  ?  It  must  surely  mean  the 
child  of  the  rich  people  in  Paris  who  had 
engaged  Donatienne.  Why  hadn't  she  written 
to  tell  him  ?  If  it  was  dead,  why  hadn't  she 
come  back  ?  Could  he  have  heard  aright, 
or  could  it  be  that  the  child  was  only  just 
dead  and  Donatienne  was  coming  back  ? 
But  then,  why  had  the  baker's  wife  said 
"  Poor  fellow  !  "  ?  Yet  that  was  the  most 
likely  thing — yes,  the  child  had  just  died, 
and  Donatienne,  in  her  distress  at  her 
nursling's  illness,  had  not  written  about  it. 
Or,  perhaps,  she  had  written  to  some  one 
else,  afraid  that  her  husband  might  blame 
her.  Blame  her  !  no  indeed;  he  would  never 
do  that,  he  was  quite  sure  she  would  have  done 
her  best  for  the  dead  baby  !  Or  she  wanted 
to  tell  him  herself  how  the  misfortune  had 
happened,  through  no  fault  of  hers.  She 
had  written  to  give  notice  of  her  return— 


70  THE   PENITENT 

her  letter,  perhaps  even  Donatienne  herself, 
were  already  on  their  way. 

"  The  child  is  dead— the  child  is  dead  !  " 
So  these  fancies  chased  each  other  through 
Louarn's  mind,  one  by  one  to  be  rejected, 
some  because  they  accused  Donatienne,  others 
because  the  embarrassed  looks  of  the  people 
he  met  made  him  feel  that  misfortune  was 
upon  him.  "  The  child  is  dead." 

When  he  knocked  at  the  post-office  shutter, 
he  looked  so  white  that  the  clerk,  a  young 
girl,  said  : 

"  There's  nothing  wrong  with  you  at  home, 
is  there,  Maitre  Louarn  ?  *! 

"  Nothing  but  the  distraint." 

"  Oh,  the  distraint !  One  gets  over  that. 
My  own  father  was  distrained  and  his  business 
was  all  the  better  afterwards.  Don't  be  too 
worried  over  that." 

Not  for  the  world  would  Louarn  have 
owned  to  the  hideous  doubt  that  gripped 
him;  but  through  the  little  window  he  saw 
how  kind  and  peaceful  was  the  clerk's  face 
and  felt  a  little  comforted  that  there  was  not 
the  slightest  trace  of  irony  to  be  read  on  it. 
She  wrote  the  telegram  for  him  : 


THE   DISTRAINT  71 

"  Everything  at  Ros  Grignon  has  been 
seized.  Everything  is  to  be  sold.  I  implore 
you  to  send  money  and  news.  Jean." 

She  read  it  over  to  him,  he  paid,  and  as  he 
still  gazed  at  her,  "  That's  all,"  she  said  gently. 

The  shutter  fell  to  and  Jean  Louarn 
escaped  by  a  street  inhabited  solely  by 
poor  folk  and  which  led  out  straight  to  the 
country. 

He  entered  Ros  Grignon  just  as  the  bailiff 
and  his  witnesses  were  leaving  the  house. 
As  they  left  the  threshold,  they  touched 
their  hats  to  the  farmer  as  he  swung  up  the 
little  pathway  to  the  left.  Louarn  lifted  his 
hand  to  the  velvet  brim  of  his  hat,  and  wait- 
ing till  the  two  other  men  had  passed,  he 
said  to  the  bailiff  : 

"  You  spoke  of  Sunday  week  for  the  sale, 
but  that's  too  far  off.  Will  you  arrange  it 
for  next  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  might  be  managed,  since  you 
consent,  and  there  are  so  few  things " 

"Then  on  Sunday,"  said  Louarn;  "she'll 
have  had  much  more  than  time  enough  to 
answer  by  then,  and  I  shall  know  what  my 
life  is  to  be." 


72  THE   PENITENT 

These  incomprehensible  words  made  the 
two  smock-frocked  witnesses  turn  round, 
and  for  a  moment  they  looked  questioningly 
at  Louarn's  bitter  face  with  something  of 
trouble  on  their  inexpressive  countenances; 
but  it  passed,  and  presently,  from  the  foot 
of  the  hillock  and  then  from  the  stony  road, 
rose  the  sound  of  their  voices  in  loud,  coarse 
laughter. 

At  Ros  Grignon  the  house  was  empty; 
Louarn  was  almost  glad  to  find  neither  his 
children  nor  Annette  Domerc  at  home;  he 
ascertained  that  nothing  had  been  moved 
from  its  place,  and  then,  more  weary  than  if 
he  had  been  labouring  over  the  harvest,  he 
threw  himself  upon  a  heap  of  hay  in  the 
stable. 

The  cow  was  asleep  before  the  empty 
manger,  the  flies  buzzed  as  they  danced 
round  her  in  the  ray  of  light  that  pierced  the 
low  window.  Under  the  beams  encumbered 
with  branches,  poles,  and  disused  hen-coops, 
the  air  was  heavy  and  drowsy — with  heat 
which  made  bits  of  half-baked  bark  crackle. 

Louarn  slept  for  some  hours;  he  was 
awakened  by  a  touch  on  his  hand  of  a  smaller 


THE   DISTRAINT  78 

one  than  his.  He  sat  up  in  surprise, 
not  certain  to  whom  it  belonged — Annette 
Domerc,  who  was  sitting  close  to  him,  or 
Noemi  whom  she  was  holding  on  her  knee. 
The  girl  appeared  to  be  playing  with  the 
child. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked  the 
farmer. 

She  laughed,  the  false-ringing  laugh  which 
always  made  Louarn  uneasy. 

"  Me  ?  I  came  to  tell  you  that  the  buck- 
wheat broth  has  been  ready  more  than 
half-an-hour,  and  as  you  were  so  fast  asleep 
I  waited.  It's  past  seven  o'clock." 

'  You  could  have  called  out  to  me  from 
the  room,"  said  Louarn,  getting  up. 

Her  eyes  followed  him  as  she  stood  still, 
and  she  murmured  with  scarce  a  movement 
of  her  pale  lips  : 

"  And  besides,  I  was  sorry  for  you,  Maitre 
Louarn." 

He  made  no  answer,  was  even  more  silent 
than  usual  at  supper,  and  afterwards  spent 
a  long  time  out  of  doors  wandering  about 
in  the  darkness.  When  he  went  to  bed, 
everything  was  quiet  at  Ros  Grignon.  The 


74  THE   PENITENT 

soft  breathing  of  the  children  from  their 
beds  fell  upon  his  listening  ears  for  hours  as 
he  lay  behind  the  curtains  already  marked 
for  sale. 

It  seemed  odd  that  he  caught  no  similar 
sound  of  breathing  from  the  servant's  bed, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  more  than  once  that 
from  the  dark  corner  where  Annette  Domerc 
lay,  two  open  eyes — two  eyes  like  yellow 
sparks — were  gazing  at  him. 

During  the  next  three  days,  he  was  scarcely 
seen  at  Ros  Grignon,  and  a  bit  of  bread,  cut 
and  eaten  standing,  was  all  he  ate.  His 
whole  time  was  spent  in  walking  about  the 
roads,  especially  the  road  to  Ploauc,  or  behind 
the  hedges  in  the  fields  watching  for  the 
postman  or  the  dropsical  woman  who  carried 
telegrams  to  the  villages  and  farms.  But 
the  postman  alone  went  by,  unconscious  of 
the  horrible  anguish  with  which  his  move- 
ments were  being  watched. 

Would  he  turn  his  eyes  towards  the  roof 
of  Ros  Grignon  like  one  who  measures  the 
well-known  distance  to  his  destination  ? 
Before  he  got  to  the  turn  in  the  road,  would 
he  raise  the  flap  of  his  leather  bag  ?  Would 


THE   DISTRAINT  75 

he  turn  in  between  the  two  sickly  service- 
trees  that  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the 
farmstead  ? 

Alas  !  he  only  went  by  with  bent  head  at 
his  usual  even,  weary  pace;  he  brushed  past 
the  service-trees  just  as  he  might  have  brushed 
past  any  other  trees,  on  his  way  to  the  lucky 
people  who  perhaps  were  not  looking  for  his 
coming,  and  would  not  bless  him  for  it. 

Then  Louarn  tried  to  hope  that  some 
stranger,  some  chance  messenger,  who  had 
had  news  and  knew  of  the  farmer's  evil  plight, 
would  take  the  road  to  the  house.  But  the 
carts  rolled  by  and  the  foot-passengers  went 
on  their  way. 

As  the  days  went  by,  Annette  Domerc's 
behaviour  became  bolder;  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  Louarn  met  her,  she  spoke 
to  him  first,  and  but  for  that  constant  little 
spark  of  fire  in  her  eyes  it  might  have  been 
supposed  that  she  shared  the  farmer's  mortal 
anxiety. 

She  pitied  him  aloud;  she  sighed  when  he 
came  in  at  night,  so  terribly  upset  that  she 
dared  not  question  him  further.  He  found 
her  ready  to  walk  long  distances  for  him  to 


76  THE   PENITENT 

farms  which  still  owed  him  small  sums  for 
journey-work.  She  had  even  gone  so  far 
as  to  speak  to  him — for  he  had  fallen  so  low 
as  to  listen  to  her  now  that  he  was  losing 
all  hope — words  that  the  master  of  Ros 
Grignon  would  not  have  tolerated  in  earlier 
days. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  had  said  to  him,  "  if  I  had  been 
in  her  place,  you  wouldn't  have  gone  without 
either  money  or  news  !  " 

And  he  had  allowed  the  servant-girl  to 
arraign  his  wife  ! 

By  the  Saturday  evening  he  felt  certain 
that  Donatienne  would  not  save  Ros  Grignon. 

The  day  was  ending  in  the  enchanting 
beauty  of  the  Breton  summer  when  a  sudden 
breeze  from  the  sea  brings  freshness  on  its 
wings.  The  sky  was  a  pale  gold ;  the  boughs 
of  the  forest- trees  swayed  gently,  bathed  in 
the  waves  of  warm  air  which  stirred  the 
tired  leaves ;  clouds  like  festival- wreaths  sailed 
along  quickly,  casting  no  shadows ;  out  of  the 
depths  had  arisen  a  mighty  breath  of  life  to 
refresh  the  earth. 

Louarn  came  in  with  clenched  hands,  and 
as  if  he  had  come  to  some  definite  decision, 


THE   DISTRAINT  77 

for  his  eyes  were  angry  as  Annette  Domerc 
had  not  often  seen  them. 

It  had  taken  months  of  anxiety  and  three 
days  of  agony  to  bring  him  to  the  last 
extremity  of  questioning  the  servant  and 
permitting  another  woman  to  become  the 
judge  of  Donatienne's  honour. 

But  all  was  lost  now  and  he  must  know. 

"  Come  here  !  "  he  said. 

Annette  Domerc  had  made  ready  for 
the  master's  return.  She  had  put  on  her 
cleanest  gown  and  her  cap  of  checked  muslin, 
from  under  which  straggled  wisps  of  her 
yellow  hair. 

She  came  towards  Louarn,  who  had  seated 
himself  on  the  bench  to  the  left  of  the  hearth, 
the  very  spot  where,  on  that  last  evening, 
he  had  held  Donatienne  so  long  in  his 
arms. 

She  stood  before  him,  her  hanging  hands 
folded  before  her  over  her  apron.  Their 
eyes  met,  the  man's  fierce  with  anger,  the 
girl's  filled  with  a  languishing  compassion. 

"  Nothing  has  come,"  he  said,  "  she  hasn't 
answered.  Do  you  understand  why  ?  Do 
you  know  why  ?  " 


78  THE   PENITENT 

"My  poor  master,"  she  said  evasively; 
"  and  everything  is  to  be  sold  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Sold  !  what  do  I  care  about  that  now  ? 
But  she — where  is  she  ?  What  is  she  doing  ? 
Perhaps  you've  heard — you're  a  talker  ?  " 

"  People  are  saying  she  won't  come  back, 
Maitre  Louarn;  they're  saying  too  that  you 
could  find  some  one  to  lend  you  what  you 
want.  Everybody  isn't  so  hard-hearted  as 
your  wife.  I've  got  a  rich  uncle;  I'll  go 
at  once,  this  evening,  to  ask  him  for  the 
money,  and  come  back,  and  you'll  be  able 
to  stay  on  at  Ros  Grignon." 

She  unclasped  her  hands,  laid  one  on  the 
big  man's  shoulder,  and  her  eyes  supplied 
the  real  meaning  of  the  words  as  she  said 
with  smiling  lips  : 

"  And  I'll  stay  on  with  you,  too 

He  started  upright ;  this  time  he  understood. 

"  You  good-for-nothing  hussy  !  "  he  cried; 
"  I  asked  you  for  news,  I'd  give  my  life  to 
hear  some,  and  that's  all  you  can  find  to 
tell  me  !  You  know  nothing — I  felt  sure 
you  didn't  !  Be  off  with  you  !  " 

She  threw  herself  away  from  him. 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  she  screamed  as  she  moved 


THE   DISTRAINT  79 

backwards  round  the  table.  "  It's  just  her- 
self that's  a  good-for-nothing  hussy  !  Every- 
body knows  it !  The  child's  dead ;  she's  not 
a  nurse  any  longer;  she's  taken  another 
place  !  " 

The  girl  was  white  and  wild  with  rage. 

1  You  want  news  of  her,  do  you  ?  I  can 
give  you  some.  She's  living  up  on  the  sixth 
storey  with  the  footmen  and  the  coachmen  ! 
She's  just  amusing  herself — she's  just  earning 
money  for  herself — that's  all !  " 

"  Be  off,  Annette  Domerc  !  be  off,  I  say  !  " 
and  the  farmer  rushed  at  her  to  put  her  out. 

But  with  a  couple  of  bounds  she  gained 
the  door,  and  Louarn  heard  her  shrill  laugh. 

"  She'll  never  come  back  !  "  she  screamed. 
*  Never — never  !  " 

For  a  moment  she  looked  defiantly  at  the 
farmer  as  he  stooped  to  pick  up  stones  to 
throw  at  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  dog;  then 
she  jumped  over  a  broom-bush,  ran  along  the 
path,  and  disappeared  at  the  turn  of  the 
road. 

The  three  frightened  children  were  huddled 
together  crying  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

**  Be    quiet,    you    there !  "    said    Louarn. 


80  THE   PENITENT 

He  came  in  quickly,  took  from  the  wall 
Donatienne's  photograph  in  its  little  frame 
of  paper  made  to  represent  tortoiseshell, 
pulled  the  door  to,  and  ran  off. 

In  the  yard  at  la  Hautiere,  the  small 
farmstead  nearest  to  Ros  Grignon,  he  caught 
sight  of  a  woman,  the  farmer's  sister,  driving 
a  flock  of  chickens  before  her. 

"  Jeanne-Marie,"  he  called  out  to  her  over 
the  wall,  "  for  the  love  of  God  go  and  look 
after  my  children  who  are  all  alone  !  I'm 
to  be  sold  up  to-morrow,  and  there's  some- 
where I  must  go  to-night." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  mere  sight 
of  him;  she  asked  no  questions,  but  said 
simply,  "  Yes,"  and  he  started  off  again  at 
once. 

A  little  further  on  he  plunged  into  the 
Forest ;  he  knew  the  clearings,  guiding  himself 
by  the  ancient  oak-trees  whose  shapes  were 
familiar  to  him,  and  to  shorten  the  way 
went  straight  through  the  wood. 

Dusk  was  beginning  to  dim  the  last  gold 
of  the  sky;  the  wind  came  in  great  gusts, 
foretelling  the  approach  of  rain,  and  then 
rushed  by  with  a  sound  like  that  of  the 


81 

ocean — the  only  thing  save  Louarn  moving 
across  the  solitary  Forest. 

The  farmer  had  bent  the  brim  of  his  hat 
down  over  his  forehead  and  plunged  straight 
onwards.  The  first,  the  only  plan  he  could 
think  of  in  his  hour  of  forsaken  desolation 
was  to  hurry  to  Donatienne's  parents  at 
Moulin-Haye.  He  had  seen  them  but  once 
since  his  marriage,  and  between  him  and 
them  no  mutual  affection  had  ever  arisen. 
The  father  despised  landsmen,  the  mother  had 
objected  to  the  marriage  of  a  pretty  girl  like 
Donatienne  with  so  poor  a  man  as  Louarn. 

But  in  his  present  overwhelming  misery, 
the  merest  chance  seemed  as  if  it  might  mean 
salvation.  From  them  he  expected  neither 
money  nor  news,  but  in  the  heart  of  the 
forsaken  husband  a  voice  arose  and  cried 
out  to  him  : 

"  Go  to  them  !  They'U  tell  you  that  that 
girl  lied;  they'll  find  some  explanation — 
parents  always  can — they've  seen  the  children 
grow  up  !  Go  to  them  !  " 

And  he  went. 

The  Forest  darkened  to  blackness;  enor- 
mous clouds  hid  the  stars  that  had  only  just 

F 


82  THE   PENITENT 

peeped  out  over  the  clearings;  from  time  to 
time  flocks  of  rooks,  startled  from  sleep, 
flew  off  in  phantom-like  wheelings.  The  first 
drops  of  rain  seemed  to  bring  a  lull  in 
the  wind,  but  the  night  grew  darker  and 
darker. 

At  the  crossway  of  Gourlay,  where  six 
roads  meet,  Louarn  mistook  his  path,  and 
stumbled  about  upon  the  rutted  slopes  where 
lay  the  trunks  of  lately  felled  trees;  and  as 
he  stumbled  his  elbow  would  touch  the  little 
paper  frame  hidden  in  his  jacket-pocket; 
the  picture  of  Donatienne  as  she  looked  in 
that — young  and  shy,  her  gentle,  bright  eyes 
under  her  Breton  cap — passed  before  his 
mental  vision,  and  each  time  he  saw  her  thus 
in  thought,  he  said  to  himself  with  still 
stronger  conviction  : 

"  It  can't  be  true  !  They  won't  believe 
either  the  evil  things  that  have  been  said 
about  you,  Donatienne  !  " 

And  his  weariness,  the  mud  that  weighed 
down  the  soles  of  his  boots,  the  rain  that 
whipped  his  face,  all  were  forgotten  for 
a  while,  until  once  more  he  was  conscious 
that  his  feet  were  dragging  and  slipping  upon 


THE   DISTRAINT  83 

the  drenched  ground  while  the  water  fell 
in  drops  from  his  jacket. 

A  still  heavier  shower  forced  him  to  take 
shelter  inside  a  hollow  tree-trunk  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  Forest.  Shivering  with  cold, 
he  wandered  about  the  waste  lands  and  the 
small  fields  divided  by  hedges  of  furze  between 
Plaintel  and  Pledran. 

At  break  of  day,  having  completely  lost 
his  way,  he  found  himself  in  a  hollow  road 
near  the  farm  of  la  Ville-Hervy,  but  beginning 
to  make  out  shapes  against  the  sky,  he  looked 
round  for  a  church-steeple,  recognized  that 
of  Pledran,  and,  amidst  meadows  grey  as 
spider's- webs,  soon  caught  sight  of  the  pale 
shimmer  of  the  little  river  Urne. 

The  cocks  were  crowing  when  he  knocked 
at  the  door  of  a  house  standing  upon  a  strip 
of  dry  mud  a  little  below  the  spot  where  the 
Urne  runs  swiftly  between  two  rocks  to  spread 
itself  out  over  a  bed  hollowed  by  the  tides. 

After  forty  years  at  sea  Donatienne's 
father  had  taken  to  fishing  these  pools, 
swarming  with  mullet  and  bass. 

From  inside  the  house,  Louarn  heard  a 
voice  asking :  *  What  do  you  want  at  this 

F2 


84  THE   PENITENT 

time  of  day  ?  "  and  then  some  one  opened 
the  door  while  hidden  behind  it. 

"  It's  I,"  said  the  farmer. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Near  the  bedstead  at  the  end  of  the  low- 
pitched,  smoke-blackened  room,  Donatienne's 
mother  was  finishing  dressing  herself,  while 
her  husband,  taciturn  by  nature  like  so  many 
Bretons,  had  re-seated  himself  in  front  of  the 
fire  to  finish  baiting  his  eel-lines. 

Louarn  drew  near  the  heap  of  damp 
heather  which  smouldered  without  flame. 
As  he  entered,  a  dread  that  he  might  be 
about  to  hear  the  contrary  of  that  his  whole 
being  longed  for,  had  seized  him.  He  took 
a  chair  in  the  chimney-corner  beside  the  old 
sailor  whose  head,  as  shaggy  as  a  goat's,  went 
regularly  up  and  down  over  an  earthen  pot, 
as  he  first  took  from  it  a  worm,  which  he 
then  fastened  on  to  one  of  the  hooks  of  the 
line  coiled  over  his  knees. 

"  I've  been  walking  all  night,"  said  Louarn ; 
"  give  me  a  bit  of  bread." 

The  woman  pushed  the  ends  of  her  shawl 
into  the  band  of  her  apron,  and  brought  out 
a  slice  of  bread,  gazing  defiantly  at  the 


THE   DISTRAINT  85 

farmer  of  Ros  Grignon  as  he  crouched  over 
the  fire.  She  was  small  and  thin,  with 
regular  features  and  a  very  withered  skin. 

'  You've  come  for  money,  I  suppose  ?  " 
she  asked. 

He  took  the  bread,  and  said  very  gently, 
but  without  looking  at  her  : 

'*  No,  I  am  worried  about  Donatienne — 
she  hasn't  written  to  me." 

Did  he  hope  that  one  or  other  of  her 
parents  would  say :  "  But  she's  written  to  us  !  " 

He  paused  a  little. 

'  When  she  was  at  home  with  you,"  he 
went  on,  "  did  she  like  running  about  to 
the  fairs  ?  " 

'Yes,  she  did,"  said  the  old  woman; 
"  and  since  she  got  married,  she  hasn't  been 
able  to,  poor  girl." 

"  Did  you  find  that  she  paid  heed  to  what 
you  said  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  anything  to  put  her  out, 
and  her  father  was  never  at  home." 

"  Do  you  believe  her  capable  of  doing  all 
they  say  about  her  ?  For  you  know  what 
they're  saying  about  Donatienne." 

In  the  dim  light  beginning  to  steal  into 


86  THE   PENITENT 

the  room,  Louarn  could  see  the  old  woman's 
eyes,  those  dark  eyes,  so  like  Donatienne's 
when  she  said  "  No."  Raising  her  voice, 
she  answered  : 

"  You  know  her  better  than  we  do,  Jean 
Louarn.  Have  you  come  to  taunt  us  about 
our  daughter  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Louarn ;  "I  don't  want  to 
offend  you." 

"  Well  then,  why  are  you  talking  about 
the  times  before  your  marriage  ?  ): 

"  Because,  when  one  is  unhappy,  Mere 
Le  Clech,  all  sorts  of  fancies  come  into  one's 
head.  But  there's  only  one  thing  I  want  to 
know.  Why  has  she  forsaken  me  ?  " 

"  If  she'd  been  happy  with  you,  Jean 
Louarn,  she  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

"  But  I  was  so  happy  with  her  !  It  can't 
be  true  !  " 

"  If  you'd  given  her  better  food  !  " 

"  Mere  Le  Clech,  I've  worked  so  hard  for 
her  sake  that  my  hands  are  just  one  sore." 

"  If  you'd  dressed  her  as  she  used  to  be 
dressed  when  she  was  a  girl." 

"  I  dressed  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I 
loved  her  with  all  my  soul." 


THE   DISTRAINT  87 

"  If  you  hadn't  given  her  three  children, 
born  to  poverty,  that  you  can't  keep  !  Do 
you  suppose  she  has  any  desire  to  come  back  ? 
She  knows  too  well  what  to  expect." 

'  No — she  does  not  know  !  "  cried  Louarn, 
rising  and  laying  the  scarce-tasted  slice  of 
bread  on  the  table.  "  The  bread  you  give 
here  is  paid  too  dear;  I'll  eat  no  more  of  it. 
I'll  quit  the  country." 

Old  Le  Clech,  who  had  gone  on  baiting  his 

lines  and  apparently  paying  no  attention  to 

the  other's  talk,  shook  his  head,  as  if  to  say : 

'  What's   the  use  of  leaving  Brittany  just 

because  of  some  trouble  about  a  woman  ?  " 

His  wife,  too,  had  turned  very  white;  the 
grief  so  violent  in  its  expression  roused  a 
kind  of  respect  in  each,  and  they  waited  for 
Louarn' s  next  words  as  for  an  oracle. 

Jean  Louarn  cast  a  glance  at  the  corner 
of  the  room  where  he  remembered  of  old 
seeing  Donatienne's  bed  when  he  came  court- 
ing her  on  Sundays.  Then  he  said  : 

"  Before  this  time  to-morrow  I  shall  have 
left  Ros  Grignon.  I  shall  take  Noemi, 
Lucienne  and  Joel  with  me,  and  you  will 
never  see  them  again." 


88  THE   PENITENT 

The  coil  of  lines  fell  and  their  leaden 
weights  rang  dull  as  they  touched  the  floor. 
A  silence  fell  upon  the  three  and  each  seemed 
to  be  pondering  the  inevitable  character  of 
this  disaster. 

Le  Clech,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  said 
without  moving  from  his  seat : 

"  Since  you're  not  coming  back,  Louarn, 
you  might  at  least  eat  of  my  bread;  it  was 
given  willingly." 

"  And  I've  got  some  new  cider,  too,"  said 
the  woman  in  a  quieter  voice. 

But  Jean  Louarn  said  never  a  word,  and 
pulling  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  went  out  from 
the  door.  He  was  leaving  behind  him  the 
memory  of  a  love — a  young  and  mutual  love 
— and  he  did  not  turn  his  head. 

The  old  man,  who  had  stepped  out  upon 
the  threshold,  seemed  for  a  while  to  be  in 
deep  thought;  then  the  glamour  of  life  re- 
awoke  in  his  red-brown  eyes — his  ear  had 
caught  the  sound  of  the  waves  rippling  over 
the  banks  of  the  Urne,  and  his  nostrils  the 
smell  of  the  seaweed  borne  on  the  wind  from 
the  rising  tide  on  the  shores  at  Roselier, 
Yffiniac  and  the  Guettes. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LAST  SUNDAY  IN  THE   NATIVE 
COUNTRY 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LAST  SUNDAY  IN  THE  NATIVE 
COUNTRY 

THE  bells  were  ringing  in  the  calm  air, 
under  a  sky  cleared  and  paled  by  the  recent 
rains,  and  the  people  of  Plceuc,  standing  in 
groups  round  the  doors  of  the  church,  were 
talking  noisily  after  coming  out  from  High 
Mass. 

A  few  servant-girls  whose  mistresses  were 
waiting  for  them,  and  mothers  hurrying  home 
to  relieve  husbands  from  the  care  of  children, 
were  already  scattered  about  the  streets  and 
roads.  There  was  a  sound  of  sabots,  of 
opening  doors,  of  drawling  voices,  of  sly 
laughter,  coming  and  going  with  the  pealing 
of  the  bells. 

It  frightened  Louarn.  He  slipped  round 
the  houses  to  the  east,  ashamed  of  his  mud- 
bespattered  clothes,  his  boots  looking  the 

91 


92  THE   PENITENT 

colour  of  the  soil,  and  the  lamentable  sight 
he  felt  he  must  be. 

If  he  hurried  he  would  be  able  to  reach 
the  beginning  of  the  road  from  Ploeuc  to 
Moncontour  without  meeting  a  soul. 

Once  there,  he  mounted  four  steps  dividing 
a  garden-wall,  went  past  a  bit  of  hedge, 
and,  without  knocking,  walked  into  the 
dining-room,  where  sat  the  Abbe  Hourtier, 
once  a  rector  on  the  coast,  now  retired 
and  living  in  the  parish  of  Plceuc,  and  who 
was  built  after  the  fashion  of  those  rocks 
which  are  supposed  to  resemble  human 
beings. 

The  Abbe  had  sung  High  Mass,  and  was 
resting,  seated  on  a  rush-bottomed  chair,  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  his  midday  meal 
before  him. 

The  strong  light  from  the  window  would 
have  dazzled  other  eyes  than  his — the  sea- 
coloured  eyes  of  the  fisherman,  under  tired, 
weary  lids. 

When  Louarn  sat  down  beside  him,  it 
could  be  seen  that  the  two  men  were  of  the 
same  race,  alike  in  figure  and  well-nigh  in 
soul. 


THE   LAST   SUNDAY  93 

They  had  long  loved  one  another  and  were 
accustomed  to  exchange  a  silent  greeting 
when  they  met  upon  the  road. 

The  Abbe  therefore  felt  no  surprise  that 
Louarn  had  come  to  confide  his  sorrow  to 
him;  he  had  listened  to  so  many,  comforted 
so  many  similar  troubles — mournings  of  hus- 
bands or  wives;  forsakings;  early  deaths  of 
children;  vessels  lost  with  all  on  board; 
wrecked  fortunes,  wrecked  friendships, 
wrecked  loves — that  his  clear  eyes  never  lost 
a  certain  look  of  compassion  even  in  the 
presence  of  the  happy. 

This  pitiful  look  fell  like  balm  on  Jean 
Louarn' s  heart. 

"  Jean,"  said  the  Abbe,  "  you  needn't  tell 
me  anything — it  would  only  make  the  trouble 
worse ;  don't  try  to  tell  me — I  know  all  about 
it." 

"  But  /  don't  know  all  about  it,"  said  the 
farmer,  "  and  I'm  so  miserable;  I'm  suffering, 
I  tell  you,  suffering  like  Him  on  the  Cross 
there  !  " 

And  he  looked  towards  the  little  plaster 
crucifix  hanging  near  the  window,  sole  orna- 
ment of  the  bare,  whitewashed  room. 


94  THE   PENITENT 

M.  Hourtier  gazed  at  the  image  with  an 
increase  of  his  pitiful  expression,  and  said  : 

"It  is  not  enough  to  resemble  Him  in 
His  sufferings,  my  poor  Louarn;  do  you 
resemble  Him  in  forgiveness  ?  " 

"  I  don't  dare  to  say  so.  What  has  she 
done  to  deserve  my  forgiveness  ?  " 

"  What  do  we  ourselves  do,  my  friend  ? 
Nothing  but  to  be  weak  and  prone  to  evil. 
Ah  !  those  poor  girls  of  ours  who,  before 
they're  twenty,  go  away  to  suckle  other 
people's  children  !  I  don't  say  this  to  hurt 
you,  Jean  Louarn;  but  I've  always  thought 
there  was  no  trouble  to  be  compared  to  that. 
When  I  see  houses  like  yours,  where  the 
husband  and  children  are  left  by  themselves, 
truly  I  tell  you  my  greatest  sympathy  is  for 
the  wife  who  has  gone." 

"  And  what  about  us  ?  "  said  Louarn. 

"  Well,  you  can  stay  on  Breton  soil,  in 
houses  to  shelter  you,  and  you  have  some  one 
to  love  still  with  you.  You  had  Noemi,  and 
Lucienne,  and  Joel;  you  had  fields  to  bring 
you  food.  But  she  was  cut  off  hi  a  moment 
from  everything  and  flung  out  there.  If 
you  sowed  a  handful  of  buckwheat  on  your 


THE   LAST   SUNDAY  95 

waste  land,  would  you  resent  its  perishing, 
Jean  Louarn  ?  I  feel  certain  your  Donatienne 
struggled  against  it;  I  feel  certain  that  she 
was  carried  away  because  she  missed  your 
support  and  all  the  evils  of  life  were  new  to 
her.  If  she  came  back " 

The  farmer  made  a  great  effort  to  answer, 
and  two  tears — the  first — filled  his  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  she  won't  come  back  for 
my  sake.  I  have  implored  her  to  come.  She 
would  rather  I  were  sold  up." 

"  Louarn,"  said  the  Abbe  gently,  "  she  is 
a  mother,  too.  Perhaps  some  day — I'll  write 
to  her — I'll  try — I  promise  you  I  will." 

"  In  my  misery,"  said  Louarn,  "I've 
sometimes  thought  she  might  come  back 
because  of  them.  She  always  loved  them 
better  than  she  did  me.  But  we  shall  be 
far  away." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

The  man  stretched  out  his  arm  towards 
the  window. 

"  To  Vendee,  M.  Hourtier ;  I  hear  there's 
work  to  be  got  there  for  poor  folk  at  the 
potato-digging  season.  I  shall  go  to  Vendee." 

His  vague  gesture  swept  the  horizon;  to 


96  THE   PENITENT 

Jean  Louarn,  as  to  so  many  of  his  fellow 
Bretons,  la  Vendee,  the  land  that  opens  out 
to  the  east  of  Brittany,  represents  all  the  rest 
of  France. 

"  But  I  shall  not  know  where  to  write  to 
you  if  she  comes  back." 

A  sorrowful  smile,  an  expression  almost 
childlike,  crossed  the  farmer's  sad  face. 

"  I've  thought  of  that,"  he  said;  "  I've  got 
her  portrait;  I  wouldn't  let  them  have  that; 
but  I  won't  take  it  away  with  me — it  might 
get  broken  on  the  road.  I  thought,  perhaps, 
you  would  keep  it.  Any  letters  that  come 
from  her,  you  could  put  behind  it  until  I 
write.  If  she  did  come  back,  she'd  find 
something  at  least  left  from  her  old  home." 

He  went  up  to  the  chimney-piece,  took 
from  his  pocket  the  little  imitation  tortoise- 
shell  frame  containing  the  portrait  of  his  wife 
taken  the  day  after  her  wedding,  and  stood 
it  upright  on  the  shelf. 

He  tried  to  slip  his  rough,  scar-seamed 
hand  into  the  narrow  space  between  the 
frame  and  the  wall. 

"  You'll  put  them  there,  behind  the 
picture." 


THE   LAST   SUNDAY  97 

The  Abbe  Hourtier  had  risen;  he  was  as 
tall  as  Louarn  and  with  broader  shoulders. 

The  two  giants — strong  to  suffer,  but 
moved  to  tenderness  each  for  each — held  one 
another  in  so  close  an  embrace  that  they 
seemed  to  wrestle. 

"  I  promise  you  everything,"  said  the  Abbe 
solemnly. 

Many  things  left  unspoken  had  been  under- 
stood and  ratified  between  their  two  souls; 
no  further  word  was  exchanged,  and  they 
parted  in  the  garden  with  countenances  so 
impassive  that  they  might  have  been  chance 
passers-by  in  life,  with  no  link  of  memory 
between  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  MAN 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   DEPARTURE   OF  THE 

THE  next  day,  in  the  wan  light  of  dawn, 
at  the  hour  when  shutters  begin  to  open  to 
the  chirping  of  the  sparrows,  a  man  was 
crossing  Plo3uc  in  the  direction  of  Moncontour. 

It  was  Louarn,  whose  goods  had  been  sold 
the  previous  day. 

He  had  left  Ros  Grignon  too  early  to  be 
able  even  to  look  for  the  last  time  upon  his 
apple-trees,  his  fields  or  the  Forest. 

Noemi  walked  at  his  right  hand,  a  tiny 
bundle  tied  to  her  elbow,  and  he  was  dragging 
a  little  wooden  hand-cart  in  which,  face  to 
face,  lay  Lucienne  and  Joel,  both  fast  asleep. 

Between  them  stood  a  black  basket  which 
had  belonged  to  Donatienne;  and  behind, 
the  handle  of  a  shovel  rose  above  the  back 
of  the  cart,  bumping  over  every  uneven  bit 
of  the  road. 

Many  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  town  were 
101 


102  THE  PENITENT 

still  asleep,  and  those  who  stood  leaning  over 
the  low  half-doors  of  their  houses,  no  longer 
laughed,  but  were  silent,  for  grief  walked 
beside  the  poor  farmer  and  gave  him  dignity. 

Louarn  made  no  effort  to  hide  himself  now ; 
he  had  set  forth  on  an  unknown  road,  without 
goal  or  probability  of  return.  He  had  be- 
come the  vagrant  in  whom  no  one  is  interested 
and  for  whom  no  man  will  answer. 

But  now  he  had  won  the  pity  of  his  former 
friends. 

When  he  had  passed  the  comer  of  the  square 
where  stood  the  baker's  shop,  a  woman  came 
out  of  it — a  very  young  woman — who  silently 
approached  the  cart  and  laid  a  big  loaf 
between  the  two  children. 

Louarn  may  have  felt  his  load  a  trifle  the 
heavier  to  pull,  but  he  did  not  turn  round. 

A  little  further  on,  upon  the  road  leading 
out  of  Ploeuc,  some  one  else  was  watching 
for  the  passing  of  Louarn. 

This  watcher  kept  along  the  garden-wall, 
with  downcast  eyes. 

So  long  as  the  man's  regular  footfalls  and 
the  creaking  of  the  wooden  wheels  could  be 
heard,  the  big  shadow  that  fell  upon  the 


THE   DEPARTURE   OF  THE  MAN  103 

walls  of  the  walk  never  moved.  But,  as  the 
group  of  travellers  grew  less  and  less  in  the 
distance  and,  almost  concealed  by  the  hedges, 
was  well-nigh  out  of  sight,  the  Abbe  Hourtier, 
thinking  of  the  strangers  who  had  been 
Donatienne's  ruin,  and  that  far-off  world  of 
big  and  little  folk  which  had  caused  Louarn's 
disaster,  raised  his  clenched  fist,  as  if  to  hurl 
n  curse  at  the  sun  beginning  to  redden  the 
lower  branches  of  his  lilacs ;  then,  remember- 
ing the  words  he  had  said  yesterday,  the 
gesture  ended  in  one  of  benediction  on  those 
who  were  going. 

The  man  had  disappeared  behind  the  trees  ; 
the  bright  morning's  joyous  song  floated 
over  Plceuc,  and  Brittany  owned  but  one 
poor  wretch  the  less. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  JOURNEY 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE   JOURNEY 

JEAN  LOUARN  had  been  walking  for  hours, 
dragging  behind  him  the  little  wooden  cart 
with  its  load — the  two  sleeping  children, 
Donatienne's  black  basket,  the  shovel,  and 
the  big  loaf,  the  gift  of  pity.  Nothing  else  of 
all  he  had  possessed  was  left  to  him,  except 
the  grief  he  carried  with  him,  too. 

He  wended  his  way  towards  the  east,  with 
bowed  back,  speaking  no  word,  his  eyes  taking 
no  note  of  those  he  met,  nor  interest  in  the 
objects  he  passed,  his  gaunt  head  cutting  its 
way  through  light  and  wind  like  the  prow  of 
a  vessel,  and  as  changeless  in  expression. 

On  and  on  he  went. 

Some  labourers  at  work  in  the  fields  beside 
the  road,  mates  of  his  in  early  ploughing  or 
the  harvesting  of  the  ripe  oats,  seeing  him  go 
by  at  the  break  of  day,  had  asked  each  other  : 

"  Who's  that  ?  " 

107 


108  THE   PENITENT 

"It's  Jean  Louarn,  the  poor  fellow,  you 
know,  who  was  distrained  and  then  sold  up, 
because  of  Donatienne." 

"Oh,  yes;  she  was  a  wet-nurse  in  Paris, 
and  she  wouldn't  come  back  or  send  him  any 
money — I  remember.  Where's  he  going  off 
to  like  that  ?  " 

"  To  la  Vendee,  I  believe." 

"  There's  not  always  luck  to  be  found  in  la 
Vendee ! " 

"  No — not  alwa}^s ;  but  go  on  working, 
my  boy,  he  might  hear  you." 

His  whole  story  was  told  in  their  words. 

Later,  in  the  middle  of  a  small  town,  the 
women,  standing  at  their  doors,  had  said  : 

1  I'm  sure  that  man  comes  from  Plceuc, 
by  his  clothes ;  but  I  can't  think  of  his  name. 
Where  can  he  be  taking  his  children  ?  " 

"  To  relations,  perhaps ;  there's  no  meeting 
or  fair  to-day." 

And  now,  there  was  no  one  left  to  recognize 
him;  he  had  passed  the  narrow  boundary 
within  whose  circle  the  name  of  his  own 
village  was  familiar.  Already  he  had  become 
a  stranger,  and  as  he  went  by  people  merely 
remarked : 


THE   JOURNEY  109 

"  He  looks  very  poor." 

As  for  him,  he  took  no  notice  of  the  people 
he  passed  or  the  country  around  him;  it  no 
longer  held  the  fields  he  had  known  from 
his  youth,  the  waste  lands,  the  woods,  the 
meadows  of  the  parish  of  Plceuc — those  low- 
lying  meadows  formed  by  two  slopes  of  grass 
divided  by  a  brook  so  slightly  that  they 
looked  like  the  leaves  of  a  dropped  book. 
Now  his  road  lay  amongst  other  but  similar 
meadows  and  woods  and  patches  of  buck- 
wheat, upon  which  the  shadows  of  the  apple- 
trees  fell  in  rounded  masses. 

He  had  longed  to  find  himself  in  the  midst 
of  new  things,  unseen  and  unspoken  of  by  all ; 
and  now  that  he  was  actually  surrounded  by 
them,  he  did  not  even  look  at  them ;  he  had 
left  his  heart  behind  him ;  they  had  no  power 
yet  to  still  his  pain. 

On  and  on  he  went;  his  short  jacket,  his 
big  hat  edged  with  velvet  swayed  rhythmi- 
cally; his  hand  dragged  the  little  cart;  once 
only  during  the  whole  morning  had  he  stopped 
to  replenish  the  milk  Joel  had  drunk.  It 
was  very  hot;  the  summer  insects  sang  of 
noon. 


110  THE   PENITENT 

Then  a  voice  pleaded  : 

"  I'm  hungry,  Papa,  I'm  hungry  !  " 

Could  he  have  forgotten  the  companions  of 
his  exile  ? 

He  stopped  short,  as  if  taken  by  surprise, 
and  gazed — vaguely  at  first — at  his  eldest 
child,  walking  behind  him  close  to  the  left 
wheel  of  the  little  cart,  the  wheel  that  grated 
at  every  turn. 

She  had  walked  until  she  could  walk  no 
longer;  and  now,  one  leg  bent  double  and 
aching  with  weariness,  she  was  standing  on 
one  foot  like  a  sleeping  bird. 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  dismay  at  the  strange 
road  and  the  things  she  had  been  wondering 
over,  and  still  wet  with  the  tears  Louarn  had 
not  noticed. 

A  round  cap  of  black  stuff  studded  with 
half-a-dozen  gold  spangles,  such  as  many 
Breton  children  wear,  fitted  tightly  on  the 
child's  head,  showing  only  a  narrow  fringe 
of  light  chestnut-coloured  hair  which  would 
darken  towards  her  twelfth  year. 

At  this  moment  Noemi  wore  the  sorrowful 
look  that  robs  a  child's  face  of  its  childlike 
character,  and  seems  to  give  it  a  life's  ex- 


THE   JOURNEY  111 

perience.      '  That's  what  she  will  look  like 
some  day,"  one  thinks  to  oneself. 

"  I'm  hungry,"  she  said  again.  "  Is  it  very 
far  off  still — where  we're  going  ?  " 

Her  father,  who  had  stooped  to  his  heels 
to  stroke  Noemi's  cheek,  nodded  his  head  as 
he  answered : 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  child — very  far  off  still !  " 

In  truth  he  did  not  quite  know  where  he 
was  going ;  but  he  felt  it  must  be  far  away, 
for  he  was  flying  from  the  memory  of  his 
happiness  and  his  sorrow.  He  was  seeking 
that  peace  which  would  have  none  of  him, 
and  when  he  noticed  that  Noemi's  face  was 
quivering  with  trouble  that  seemed  to  say  : 
"  Then  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  so  far  with 
you,"  he  regretted  having  spoken  as  he  had 
done. 

"  We  shall  not  go  all  the  way  at  once," 
he  went  on ;  "  we'll  rest,  look,  we'll  rest  here ; 
it's  time  to  eat  our  loaf." 

A  few  paces  to  the  right  there  was  an 
opening  almost  as  wide  as  the  road,  but  lined 
with  beech-trees  whose  branches  interlaced 
over  a  solitary  pathway,  mossy  and  grass- 
grown  by  turns.  Whither  did  it  lead  ?  Was 


112  THE   PENITENT 

it  the  avenue  to  a  gentleman's  house,  or  to 
a  farm,  or  to  ruins  ?  It  twisted  in  its  descent, 
and  its  double  masses  of  great  trees  could  be 
followed  amongst  the  fields  till  with  them  they 
melted  into  the  blue  distance. 

Louarn  did  not  venture  farther;  he  drew 
the  little  cart  into  the  shade  of  one  of  the  first 
trees,  put  Lucienne  on  the  ground,  and  took 
out  the  big  loaf. 

"  Turn  and  turn  about !  "  he  said. 

He  sat  down,  and  realized  that  he  was 
hungry  by  his  appreciation  of  the  good 
Plceuc  bread. 

With  his  knife,  whose  blade  was  worn  and 
bent  by  use,  he  cut  great  mouthfuls  for  him- 
self, and  smaller  ones  for  Lucienne  and  Noemi 
— Lucienne  standing,  Noemi  sitting  in  front 
of  him — giving  each  her  bit  with  a  loving 
word  or  a  whistling  call  when  Noemi' s  brown 
head  or  Lucienne' s  blonde  one  was  turned 
away. 

Little  Noemi !  She  was  so  young  that  to 
make  her  understand  he  was  fain  to  put  on  a 
cheerful  air  and  invent  things  that  cost  him 
dear  to  put  into  words. 

Already  she  showed  herself  only  too  prone 


THE   JOURNEY  113 

to  guess  at  the  trouble  and  to  talk  about  it; 
and  as  Louarn  answered  her  he  kept  thinking  : 
"  She  mustn't  be  allowed  to  think  that  she 
has  no  mother  now,"  but  he  lied  so  sorrow- 
fully, so  awkwardly,  that  she  asked  the  same 
questions  again  and  again. 

Joel  began  to  cry  in  the  cart,  and  his  father 
said  to  himself :  "  How  shall  I  ever  be  able 
to  keep  him  with  me  on  the  journey  ?  " 

He  took  the  baby  up  and  walked  about, 
rocking  him  in  his  arms;  that  pacified  the 
child,  and  soon,  in  the  heavy  August  heat, 
under  the  hedge  of  gorse  near  the  high-road, 
the  father  and  his  three  children  were  all 
asleep,  the  flies  buzzing  about  them. 

Half-past  twelve,  one  o'clock,  half-past  one. 

Louarn  awoke  with  a  start  at  the  sound  of 
a  loud  voice  saying  : 

4  Who  are  you,  my  man  ?  " 

And  at  the  same  time  a  hand,  gloved 
but  solid  and  powerful,  took  him  by  the 
collar. 

"  Come,  wake  up  !  Do  you  come  from 
hereabouts  ?  ': 

'  No,  Monsieur,"  said  Louarn  angrily. 

"  From  where,  then  ?  " 


ii 


114  THE   PENITENT 

"  I  won't  tell  you." 

"  You  won't  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other,  one 
still  seated,  the  other  loosing  his  hold  and 
standing  upright. 

This  last  had  got  out  of  a  low  pony- 
carriage;  he  had  a  full  fresh-coloured  face, 
with  authoritative  hazel  eyes. 

You  had  but  to  see  the  freedom  of  his  move- 
ments and  the  easy  fashion  in  which  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  help  Noemi  to  get  up,  to  feel 
sure  he  was  well-off. 

He  wore  checked  woollen  stockings,  ample 
breeches  to  suit  his  ample  person,  a  short  coat 
to  match,  and  a  straw  hat. 

At  first  Louarn  fancied  this  wealthy  person 
was  rebuking  him  for  resting  on  private 
property  and  disfiguring  the  landscape  with 
his  three  poorly-clad  children  and  the  wretched 
little  wooden  cart ;  and  this  roused  his  Breton 
independent  spirit  and  bad  temper.  But  he 
speedily  saw  his  mistake.  This  rich  man  must 
surely  be  his  countryman  and  aware  of  that 
kind  of  haughty  nature,  for  there  was  an 
almost  tender  pity  in  his  look  as  he  counted 


THE   JOURNEY  115 

over  the  items  of  Louarn's  baggage  and  said 
in  the  same  rough  voice  as  at  first : 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you  tell  me  who 
you  are  or  not ;  you  may  keep  your  secrets  to 
yourself,  and  I'll  help  you  just  the  same  as  if 
I  knew  them.  Only  just  tell  me  if  you  want 
work  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  both  fell  upon  the  handle  of  the 
shovel  sticking  up  at  the  back  of  Louarn's 
little  cart. 

"  I've  only  just  started  on  a  journey,"  said 
Louarn;  "I  haven't  hired  myself  out  any- 
where yet.  But  if  you  have  a  shed  ? " 

"  I  have.  Go  down  the  avenue,  and  tell  the 
foreman  I've  hired  you." 

He  walked  a  few  steps  towards  his  carriage, 
then  turned  back. 

"  Tell  my  farmer's  wife,  too,  to  look  after 
those  brats  and  to  open  the  barn  for  you." 

For  a  long  moment  he  gazed  into  Jean 
Louarn's  eyes — those  sad,  blue-grey  eyes; 
then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Look  here — you  can  say  that  I  know 
you." 

It  was  true,  he  had  recognized  the  anguish 
that  asks  nothing  from  humanity. 

H2 


116  THE   PENITENT 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone,  and  Louarn 
stood  alone  on  the  beech-lined  slope.  He 
spread  out  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  the  money 
he  had  put  into  an  old  tobacco-pouch,  and 
counted  out  four  francs  forty  centimes. 

"  It's  little  enough  !  "  he  muttered;  "  I'd 
better  begin  work  at  once,  since  one  can  at 
least  keep  oneself  here." 

He  felt  no  desire  for  work,  hard  necessity 
alone  induced  him  to  it,  and  he  sighed,  remem- 
bering how  last  winter  he  had  hastened  to  rise 
from  his  bed  to  reclaim  the  waste  so  as  to 
prepare  a  sweeter,  richer  and  more  joyful 
return  for  her  who  had  not  returned. 

After  a  moment  he  was  seized  by  so  irresis- 
tible a  longing  to  win  approval,  to  feel  that 
another  shared  his  thought  as  always  of  old, 
that  having  none  near  him  but  Noemi  able 
to  understand,  he  went  over  to  the  child  as 
she  sat  digging  out  the  moss  to  make  a  grotto. 

"  My  little  Noemi,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do  ?  " 

Complete  childish  trust,  a  little  love,  some- 
thing of  flattered  pride  were  in  her  smile,  and 
sent  a  ray  of  light  into  his  heart  as  when  of 
old  Donatienne  had  smiled. 


THE   JOURNEY  117 

"I'm  going  to  stay  several  days  here; 
you'll  be  able  to  rest  and  play.  Would  you 
like  that  ?  " 

The  long  lashes  over  her  brown  eyes  were 
lowered  and  made  answer  for  her. 

*  Yes — I  should  like  it  very  much," 

"  There'll  be  a  house  for  you,  and  I  shall 
work.  Of  course  I  must  go  on  working, 
mustn't  I  ?  " 

"Oh!   yes " 

She  did  not  know  the  exact  meaning  of 
his  question  or  her  answer;  it  was  too  much 
for  her  six-years' -old  intelligence;  but  her 
smile  suddenly  disappeared,  her  face  length- 
ened, and  from  her  wide-open  eyes  spoke  a 
fixed  idea  and  a  hope. 

"  And  after  that — "  she  asked,  "  shall  we 
go  back  to  Ros  Grignon  ?  ': 

"  No,  my  darling." 

The  little  face  fell. 

"  Then  shall  we  go  to  see  Maman  where 
she  is  ?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"  In  Paris  ?  " 

He  turned  away  as  he  answered : 

"  Later  on,  perhaps,  later  on,  my  darling." 


118  THE  PENITENT 

And  Louarn  thought  to  himself :  "  How 
she  thinks  it  all  out  already  !  I  shall  have  to 
be  very  careful  with  her;  it  must  be  almost 
as  painful  to  her  as  if  she  were  grown  up." 

"  Come  along,  little  ones  !  "  he  said  aloud ; 
"  get  up.  We  must  go  down  here.  One  must 
live  somehow  !  " 

And  so  they  went  downwards  between  the 
great  trees  planted  of  old  beside  the  road 
which  had  seen  the  passing  of  troops  of  men- 
at-arms,  dwarfed  by  distance  as  they  went 
their  way  beneath  the  thickly  interlacing 
boughs,  and  the  grating  of  the  cart-wheels 
mingled  with  the  chirpings  of  the  grass- 
hoppers. 

It  was  one  of  those  hot,  windless  days  the 
ocean  at  times  accords  to  Brittany  to  allow  the 
buckwheat  and  the  apples  to  begin  to  ripen. 

Before  it  ended,  before  the  setting  of  the 
sun,  long  delayed  in  August,  Louarn  had 
set  to  work,  and,  with  his  mates,  was  labouring 
at  the  job  for  which  they  had  been  hired. 

It  was  easy  enough. 

He  had  put  on  the  sabots  the  bailiff  had 
allowed  him  to  keep  from  the  Ros  Grignon 
sale,  and  now,  with  fifty  other  men,  labourers 


THE  JOURNEY  119 

or  tramps  like  himself,  he  was  clearing  out  a 
pond  which  the  prolonged  heat  of  the  summer 
had  dried  up. 

They  had  set  to  work  across  the  pond,  and 
the  gang  were  working  in  a  narrow  space  in 
the  midst  of  a  basin  of  mud  some  acres  in 
extent,  soft  and  oozing  in  places,  in  others 
hard  and  cracked — a  mass  of  roots,  dried 
wood,  last  autumn's  leaves,  slimy  froth,  and 
pools  of  fresh  water,  its  clammy  surface  scored 
with  the  tracks  of  worms  trying  to  reach  the 
still  damp  centre. 

Each  labourer  had  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
wading  through  the  mire,  shovelled  the  mud 
along  in  heaps  two  feet  high ;  then,  his  barrow 
full,  pushed  it  to  the  bank  to  empty  it. 

There  were  men  there  of  all  ages,  from  all 
sorts  of  places,  with  all  sorts  of  garments, 
and  of  all  sorts  of  types — wolves,  foxes, 
dogs,  pigs,  tiger-cats ;  and  in  the  eyes  of  well- 
nigh  all  could  be  read  the  same  warning  : 
"  Beware  of  me  !  " 

They  shovelled  or  rested  at  their  pleasure, 
taking  no  notice  of  the  contractor's  remarks— 
a  big  fellow  in  a  smock  who  looked  like  a 
corpulent  butcher, 


120  THE  PENITENT 

They  were  already  on  terms  of  acquaint- 
ance, though  hired  but  yesterday;  they 
shouted  to  one  another,  they  swore  at  the 
water-lily  stems,  thick  as  cables,  they  had  to 
pull  up;  they  swore  at  the  stench,  at  the 
owner,  at  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  now  and 
then,  having  struck  a  mud-trapped  eel  with 
a  blow  of  a  shovel-handle,  they  chucked  it 
into  the  field  beyond  with  peals  of  laughter. 

Several  ceased  work  without  giving  any 
reason  and  went  off.  The  real  poverty-stricken 
amongst  them  worked  hard  and  earned  pay 
for  the  rest. 

Jean  Louarn  was  one  of  these  last.  At  his 
usual  slow  pace  he  had  come,  shovel  on 
shoulder,  gazing  with  like  indifference  at  the 
pond  into  which  he  was  to  go  and  the  mates 
who  were  there  before  him.  He  exchanged  a 
word  or  two  with  the  foreman  of  the  gang, 
took  his  wheelbarrow  and  went  down  into 
the  slough;  then  with  the  sure  and  regular 
movements  of  a  machine,  he  alternately 
shovelled  and  lifted  the  mud,  a  deep  trench 
forming  in  front  of  him  as  he  worked  on. 

What  did  he  care  whether  his  work  was 
such  as  this  rather  than  harvesting  or  harrow- 


THE   JOURNEY  121 

ing,  now  that  he  could  take  no  pleasure  in  any 
done  away  from  home  and  merely  to  earn 
the  bread  that  must  be  eaten  alone  ? 

But  at  least  no  one  had  asked  his  name; 
no  one  spoke  to  him,  and  amidst  the  noise  he 
could  go  on  dreaming  as  on  the  roads  a  while 
ago. 

One  thing  gave  him  some  comfort;  the 
children  had  been  received  at  the  Farmhouse 
by  an  old  woman  who  had  said  to  a  very 
young  one  : 

"  The  little  creatures  are  poor,  Anna;  you 
must  look  after  them  just  like  ours;  make 
them  some  broth.  You  must  give  the  two 
little  girls  a  bed  and  put  the  baby  in  the  cot 
by  your  side ;  it's  so  sad  when  children  have 
no  mother." 

For  Louarn,  unable  to  tell  the  real  truth, 
had  said  the  children  were  motherless. 

And  as  he  toiled  he  thought  of  the  handsome 
girl  of  the  farm,  and  in  his  mind's  eye,  saw 
her  carrying  off  Joel  in  motherly  arms, 
cheerfully  ignoring  the  trouble  he  must  give 
her. 

The  little  ones  would  be  happy — that  was 
certain,  so  their  father  felt  no  regret  at  having 


122  THE   PENITENT 

accepted  this  offer  of  work  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  the  journey. 

He  worked  on  without  pause ;  still  when  he 
raised  his  head  he  felt  a  vague  surprise  at 
realizing  that  he  was  not  yet  quite  free  of  the 
familiar  landscape. 

Beyond  the  withered  rushes  that  ringed  the 
pond,  the  ground  rose  a  little;  meadows  lay 
spread  on  every  side  alternating  with  waste 
lands,  bushes,  and  fallows  grey  or  brown- 
wide,  wind-swept  spaces  where  flocks  of  sheep 
wandered,  bounded  in  the  distance  by  rows 
of  beech-trees  looking  like  masses  of  rounded 
rocks. 

Behind  one  of  these  stood  the  house  and 
the  farm,  both  built  of  the  same  granite  and 
of  the  same  period,  and  joined  together. 

In  this  spot,  which  resembled  a  bay  dug 
out  by  the  sea  and  then  left  dry,  Louarn  felt 
he  was  not  a  stranger. 

No  doubt  the  objects  round  him  were  not 
absolutely  like  those  he  had  left  behind  him, 
but  they  spoke  to  his  heart  in  the  same 
fashion,  and  over  all  there  breathed  the 
rhythmic  air  that  rises  and  falls  with  the  tides. 

Yes,   there  was   something   of  home  still 


THE   JOURNEY  123 

around  him,  and,  at  first,  Louarn  believed  it 
would  help  him  to  live. 

But  the  first  night  fell — fell  swiftly  and 
sadly;  from  the  pond  and  the  earth  around, 
vapours  arose  to  meet  it,  and  in  the  fading 
light  the  place  took  on  so  wild  and  barren  a 
look  that  it  startled  Louarn.  Leaning  on 
his  shovel,  he  watched  the  crimson  glow  that 
hung  above  the  beech-trees  as  it  slowly  made 
its  way  down  their  smoke-coloured  trunks. 

Out  there,  towards  the  setting  sun,  lived 
his  grief;  out  there,  somewhere  in  the  twi- 
light, stood  a  little  farm  upon  a  hillock,  where 
others  now  had  a  home.  Others  !  Oh,  poor 
Louarn  !  and  so  near  you  still !  A  child  had 
been  able  to  walk  the  distance.  The  scent 
of  your  buckwheat  might  almost  reach  you; 
but  strangers  will  harvest  it !  Where  you 
once  were,  they  are  now;  they  will  sleep 
where  you  slept.  Look  !  is  not  that  the 
Forest  of  Plceuc  in  front  of  you  ?  Is  not  that 
the  waste  ?  Is  not  this  the  hour  when  to 
the  labourer,  weary  from  his  day's  work,  the 
door  opened  and  let  him  see  at  a  glance  the 
walls,  the  fire,  the  beloved  wife,  the  cradles — 
all  that  made  up  his  life  ? 


124  THE   PENITENT 

Poor  Louarn  !  The  kisses  of  by-gone  days 
bleed  like  wounds;  the  dread  of  to-morrow 
falls  with  the  dark;  strength  to  forgive 
dwindles  with  the  day. 

"  It  won't  do  for  me  to  stay  here  long," 
thought  Louarn;  "  it  reminds  me  too  much 
of  home." 

"  You're  in  trouble,  you  Breton,"  said  a 
voice. 

Louarn  turned  his  head  slowly,  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  grass  he  perceived  a  flat-nosed 
labourer  who  was  nicknamed  the  Boulonnais, 
putting  on  the  blue  linen  jacket  he  had  taken 
off  while  working. 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  in  trouble  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Because  you  stay  on  here  after  the  others 
have  gone  !  You  confounded  ass  !  " 

The  Breton  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders 
at  the  insult,  while  the  man  hurried  off,  his 
hands  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  which  they 
distended  like  a  petticoat. 

And,  in  fact,  those  groups  of  shadows 
walking  in  ever-widening  directions,  were  his 
mates. 

Last  of  all,  Louarn  himself  left  the  pond, 


THE   JOURNEY  125 

and  wiping  his  hands  and  his  sabots  with  a 
wisp  of  grass,  he  went  back  to  his  children  at 
the  farm  and  to  sleep  on  the  straw  in  the 
stable. 

So  a  week  went  by ;  on  the  eighth  day  there 
came  a  hot  haze  which  withered  the  leaves 
and  exhausted  the  men.  On  the  two  previous 
days  the  Boulonnais  had  kept  on  jeering  at 
Jean  Louarn,  who  had  refused  to  join  the  rest 
at  their  midday  meal,  eating  it  alone  and  apart, 
and  never  laughing. 

To-day,  seeing  that  Louarn  was  more  surly 
and  silent  than  ever,  and  having  failed  to 
rouse  him,  anyhow  to  irritate  him,  he  took 
to  inventing,  for  he  knew  nothing  certain 
about  this  taciturn  tramp. 

"  Well,  mates,"  he  began,  "  the  job's  half 
done.  A  good  riddance.  I,  for  one,  shan't 
regret  the  shed,  nor  my  neighbour  in  the 
pond.  He  must  have  murdered  somebody, 
that  Breton  fellow,  to  make  him  so  ill- 
tempered,  unless  his  wife " 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  said  Louarn's  deep 
voice. 

But  the  other,  excited  all  the  more  by 
seeing  Louarn  aroused  at  last,  went  on  : 


126  THE   PENITENT 

"  Unless  his  wife  has  cast  him  off  !  " 

"  She's  dead  !  "  shouted  Louarn. 

"  If  that  was  true  you  wouldn't  bawl  it  out 
like  that,"  said  the  other;  "  just  you  look  at 
him  !  " 

The  Boulonnais  had  no  time  to  say  more ; 
Louarn,  casting  away  his  shovel,  had  drawn 
tight  the  leather  belt  which  supported  his 
trousers,  struck  his  hands  together  twice  as  a 
preliminary  of  fight,  and  with  outstretched 
arms  and  suddenly  broadened  shoulders 
towered  above  the  labourer,  who  had  pulled 
himself  together  and  was  on  guard,  his  fists 
against  his  chest  and  his  eyes  wild  with  fury. 

A  roar  of  shouts,  cheers,  hatred,  went  up. 

"  Kill  the  Breton,  Boulon,  kill  him  !  " 

Then  silence  fell  and  in  the  circus  with 
its  walls  of  mud,  fifty  men  watched  for  a 
treacherous  blow. 

They  had  but  a  second  to  wait. 

The  Boulonnais,  with  head  down,  rushed 
at  Louarn  intending  to  butt  him  in  the 
stomach.  Slipping  aside,  Louarn  evaded  the 
blow ;  he  stooped  with  tensely-stiffened  loins, 
and  seizing  his  foe  as  he  came  on  by  the 
middle,  he  picked  him  up,  lifted  him  with  his 


THE   JOURNEY  127 

strong  wrists,  threw  him  over  his  shoulder, 
and  then,  swinging  him  thrice  with  out- 
stretched arms — while  three  shouts  went  up — 
flung  him  into  the  mud,  wherein  the  tramp 
sank,  his  face  striking  the  bottom,  a  dozen 
yards  from  the  edge. 

Then  Louarn  turned  to  the  spectators  of 
the  fight,  several  of  whom  were  coming  on, 
lifting  up  shovels  or  pulling  out  knives. 

"  Whose  turn  next  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Mine  !  "  cried  a  few  voices. 

But  not  one  of  them  dared  approach  the 
Breton,  who  stood  shaking  the  mud  from  his 
fingers  and  panting ;  every  muscle  of  his  body 
tense  and  ready  for  use,  while  he  waited  a 
fresh  adversary. 

When  he  found  that  no  one  came  on  or 
dared  to  venture  within  reach  of  his  arm,  he 
picked  up  his  shovel  and  made  his  way  out 
of  the  circle  which  parted  before  him. 

'  Where  are  you  going,  le  Breton  ?  "  asked 
the  overseer,  who  had  been  an  interested 
spectator  of  the  fight,  but  now  resumed  his 
authority;  "where  are  you  going?  Shake 
hands  with  the  Boulonnais,  your  mate,  and 
let  everybody  go  back  to  work  !  " 


128  THE   PENITENT 

He  stood  somewhat  in  awe  of  his  men,  like 
the  vaqueros  who  gaze  at  the  bull-fight  from  a 
distance. 

But  Louarn  went  on  his  way,  his  shovel  on 
his  shoulder,  up  towards  the  farm,  faintly 
visible  like  a  somewhat  deeper  shadow  behind 
the  rows  of  trees. 

"  I  must  go  on  farther,"  he  muttered;  ;'  I 
won't  have  any  one  speaking  to  me  about  her. 
Oh,  how  she  haunts  me  still !  They  guessed 
at  my  trouble.  I  must  go  still  farther  away  !  " 

After  he  had  given  his  directions  and  every- 
thing was  ready  in  the  farmyard  with  its 
arched  gateway  of  granite  green  with  the 
winter's  damps ;  when  Lucienne  and  Joel  had 
been  once  more  laid  in  the  hand-cart,  Louarn, 
as  he  raised  his  hat  in  farewell,  in  the  shadows 
of  the  hall  caught  sight  of  the  handsome  tall 
girl,  and  she  was  crying. 

Her  eyes  had  followed  the  little  ones  so 
tenderly,  she  had  so  well  earned  the  farewell 
greeting  Lucienne  and  Noemi  were  sending 
her;  she  would  so  have  loved  the  baby, 
little  Joel  whom  she  had  rocked  to  sleep  and 
dressed  and  carried  out  in  her  arms,  to  stay 
until  he  could  chatter,  that  he  could  not 


THE   JOURNEY  129 

help  feeling  a  sort  of  regret  and  almost  of 
affection. 

"  She  wouldn't  have  thought  it  possible  to 
leave  them,  if  she'd  been  their  mother,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

But  that  seemed  to  him  an  evil  thought 
and  he  put  it  away  from  him  at  once;  and 
saying  good-bye  to  the  old  woman  of  the  farm 
who  was  nearest  to  the  threshold,  he  took  up 
the  ring  of  hazel-wood  which  served  as  handle 
to  the  pole  of  the  cart,  and  across  the  manure 
of  the  yard  came  the  muffled  sound  of  a  heavy 
step  and  a  little  light  one,  and  the  grating  of 
the  turning  wheels. 

That  night  they  slept  at  another  farm, 
less  hospitable  than  the  one  they  had  left, 
where  Louarn  was  abused  for  coming  at  so 
late  an  hour,  and  made  to  wait;  but  they 
were  not  turned  away. 

There  was  always  a  suspicion  of  fear  in  the 
permission  given  him  by  the  peasants  to  sleep 
upon  the  straw — fear  of  revenge,  fear  of  fire, 
fear  of  some  evil  trick — but  there  was  also  a 
holy  pity,  remnant  of  that  divine  charity 
which  even  now  at  dusk  in  the  country-places 
of  France  opens  doors  to  the  wayfarer. 


130  THE   PENITENT 

Thus  on  the  morrow,  and  for  the  whole  of 
the  next  week,  he  found  a  shelter.  He 
journeyed  on  towards  the  east,  telling  no  one 
whither  he  was  going,  still  less  the  cause  of 
his  journey.  All  he  said  was  : 

"I'm  going  to  Vendee  for  the  potato- 
digging." 

That  was  enough  for  the  simple  folk  who 
questioned  him  —  La  Vendee,  meaning  all 
the  rest  of  France,  so  large  and  open  to 
the  sun,  has  always  been  looked  upon  by  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Peninsula  as  the  land  of 
plenty. 

The  weather  remained  fine  on  the  whole; 
Louarn  walked  on  for  two  or  three  days  at 
a  stretch,  then  stopped  at  some  farm  to  work 
for  bread. 

Each  morning  from  some  spot  or  other  came 
the  rumbling  of  threshing-machines,  and  it 
was  enough  to  go  up  and  say  :  "  Do  you  want 
me  ?  "  to  be  given  a  place  amongst  the  crowd 
of  men  and  women  as  numerous  as  guests  at 
a  wedding  who  surrounded  the  machine  and 
fed  it. 

Everywhere,  too,  despite  the  weariness  of 
the  overworked  housewives  who  had  to  get 


THE   JOURNEY  131 

ready  the  meals  for  so  many,  the  children 
were  taken  in,  and  some  one — more  or  less 
tardily,  more  or  less  willingly — found  time  to 
cook  the  broth  and  wash  the  baby's  scanty 
linen. 

Almost  invariably  the  men,  seeing  the  little 
cart,  said  no;  but  the  women  said  yes,  and 
let  it  come  in  and  stand  in  the  shadow  of  the 
ricks  which  quivered  to  the  clamour  of  the 
bands  and  wheels  of  the  threshing-machine. 

But  when  Louarn  was  leaving  the  farm, 
looking  at  Joel,  they  never  failed  to  warn  him, 
prophesying  : 

"  You'll  kill  him,  my  poor  fellow  !  When 
the  cold  weather  comes  you'll  see  what  will 
happen.  You  can't  travel  all  over  France 
with  a  baby  !  " 

He  made  no  answer. 

In  spite  of  the  children's  slow  pace  they 
were  getting  on,  Louarn  avoided  the  towns 
as  much  as  possible,  partly  from  shyness,  being 
slow  of  speech,  partly  from  dread  of  the  police, 
for  the  instinctive  distrust  of  the  resident 
always  felt  by  the  wanderer,  weighed  heavily 
upon  him. 

He  avoided  the  villages,  too,  because,  as 

I  2 


132  THE   PENITENT 

you  entered  them,  you  were  confronted  by  a 
notice  that  begging  was  forbidden;  and 
although  he  did  not  beg,  he  was  aware  that 
his  willingness  to  work  would  not  be  taken 
into  account — he  would  be  just  the  tramp, 
that  nondescript  being,  a  member  of  the  great 
body  of  paupers,  prowlers,  thieves  and  com- 
pany whose  reputation  is  an  established  and 
venerable  fact. 

And  in  proportion  as  he  became  more  and 
more  a  stranger  in  the  country,  so  the  more  he 
became  an  object  of  suspicion. 

Before  long,  in  fact,  the  jacket  braided  with 
black  velvet,  the  big  hat,  the  wide,  worn 
trousers  of  blue  drugget,  began  to  look  odd, 
proving  that  the  people  no  longer  recognized 
this  as  their  ancient  costume. 

The  character  of  the  soil  altered;  the 
ploughed  fields,  heavy  with  clay,  no  longer 
wore  the  look  of  purple  or  sandy  dust  or 
powdered  salt  of  the  ploughed  fields  of 
Brittany ;  the  earth  brought  forth  vegetables 
instead  of  flowers;  the  unused  pastures,  the 
paths  leading  nowhither,  the  desolate  fields 
from  which  the  master  is  always  absent, 
lessened  in  number,  and  there  were  fewer 


THE   JOURNEY  133 

traces  of  the  wind's  doings,  fewer  distorted 
elm-trees  and  more  upstanding  oaks. 

But  it  was  the  hills  above  all  that  were  of  a 
different  kind ;  no  rocks  projected  from  them ; 
no  brooks  were  narrowed  between  them; 
the  north-west  wind  did  not  harass  them; 
their  crops  were  not  beaten  down.  Little  or 
no  buckwheat  now,  less  gorse,  heather  getting 
scarce,  the  scent  of  mint  increasing;  the 
salt-laden  air,  that  air  which  awakens  the 
spirit  of  adventure  in  the  hearts  of  men,  blew 
no  more,  and  the  wind  lost  its  rhythm,  and 
the  tide  that  of  old  used  to  rise  and  fall  with 
it  rose  and  fell  no  longer  on  the  ear,  and  the 
song  it  sang  was  broken. 

Louarn  was  well  aware  that  these  days  were 
his  days  of  farewell,  and  he  walked  slower  and 
looked  about  him  more,  as  if  seeking  every- 
where for  the  eyes  of  departing  friends. 

On  one  of  these  days  of  slow  travel,  he  was 
overtaken  by  torrents  of  rain.  He  sought 
the  shelter  of  a  slope,  and  against  the  bank 
of  a  ditch  at  the  side  of  the  grass-grown 
road  he  drew  the  cart  and  the  two  children 
in  it. 

A  hollow  trunk,  its  split  dead  bark  veined 


134  THE   PENITENT 

with  living  wood,  rose  above  them,  and 
Noemi  crouched  down,  her  head  amongst 
the  brambles,  while  Louarn,  a  little  to  one 
side,  half-in,  half-out  of  shelter,  sat  with 
bowed  back,  gazing  at  the  grass,  awaiting  the 
end  of  the  shower. 

But  the  storm  grew  worse,  the  wind  beat 
in  upon  them  and  made  the  shelter  useless. 
The  ditch  filled  with  water,  the  wet  boughs 
ceased  to  protect  them,  their  drenched  gar- 
ments clung  to  their  shoulders. 

Louarn  saw  that  Joel  was  half  frozen;  he 
took  off  his  jacket  and  threw  it  over  the 
children.  Alas !  the  air  grew  colder  and 
colder  and  the  little  hands  beneath  the 
covering  shivered  more  and  more. 

In  an  hour's  time,  when  he  lifted  the  arm 
Joel  had  thrust  out  of  the  wooden  box,  he 
realized  that  fever  had  seized  upon  his 
youngest  child. 

Then,  leaving  his  jacket  to  protect  the  two 
little  ones,  whom  it  well-nigh  hid,  he  drew 
the  cart  from  the  ditch  and  went  up  the 
path  to  the  highway. 

Now,  contrary  to  his  custom,  he  wanted  to 
reach  the  nearest  village  and  beg  for  help, 


THE   JOURNEY  135 

for  in  his  ignorance,  he  was  more  easily 
alarmed  than  a  mother 

Noemi  trotted  along  through  the  mud, 
her  skirt  turned  up  over  her  head.  The  rain 
fell  so  thick  and  straight  that  they  could  see 
nothing  beyond  the  hedges  on  either  side  of 
the  road. 

There  was  room  for  but  one  thought  in 
Louarn's  mind  :  *'  If  I  can  only  find  help  for 
my  little  one  !  " 

He  did  not  know  even  the  name  of  any 
town  he  might  come  upon;  but,  happily, 
after  walking  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
he  and  Noemi  caught  sight  of  roofs  on  both 
sides  of  the  road,  roofs  upon  which  the  rain 
was  pattering,  the  dancing  drops  making  a 
halo  round  them. 

"  At  last,"  said  Louarn,  "  you'll  be  able 
to  get  warm,  my  poor  little  Noemi,  and  we 
shall  find  a  bed  for  your  brother.  He's  got 
the  fever." 

He  hurried  on,  running  almost,  but  impeded 
by  his  soaked  trousers  which  stuck  to  his 
knees. 

Two  women  who  were  looking  from  a  win- 
dow at  the  overflowing  gutter  and  the  sky 


136  THE   PENITENT 

where  the  wind,  and  the  clouds,  and  the  sun 
were  struggling  together,  let  the  curtains  fall 
when  they  caught  sight  of  Louarn  and  the 
movement  he  made  to  approach  them. 

Twice  the  little  cart  started  in  their  direction 
and  twice  returned  to  the  middle  of  the  road. 

A  third  woman  was  standing  on  her  door- 
step sweeping  out  the  water  that  had  got 
into  her  house  with  a  broom. 

Between  the  sweeps  she  realized  that  an 
appeal  for  charity  was  approaching,  and  she 
took  the  initiative. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  "I've  nothing  to  give 
you." 

Louarn,  his  teeth  chattering,  began  : 

"  It's  my  child " 

"  Well,  I've  got  children  of  my  own  !  " 
screamed  the  woman ;  "  go  on  farther  !  " 

Farther  on  there  stood  a  carpenter,  who 
had  gone  on  working  his  plane,  with  regular 
movements  up  and  down,  framed  in  an  arched 
shop-front,  opening  three  feet  from  the 
ground. 

When  the  poor  fellow  stood  still  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  afraid  to  venture  in  vain 
to  cross  the  distance  between  them,  the  work- 
man gave  him  a  good-natured  look,  which 


THE   JOURNEY  137 

simply  meant  that  he  was  glad  to  be  out  of  the 
wet  himself,  his  feet  amongst  the  shavings 
and  to  be  sure  of  work  the  year  long. 

Of  course  he  didn't  wish  to  be  rude  to  the 
pale-faced  haggard  tramp  who  asked  him  : 

"  Can  any  one  take  me  in  here  ? ': 

"  Begging  is  forbidden  in  this  parish,  my 
friend,"  said  the  carpenter. 

He  had  the  face  of  an  old  soldier  now  a 
householder,  full,  with  a  long  tuft  of  beard 
and  a  pink  complexion  streaked  with  white 
like  painted  china. 

"I'm  not  begging,"  replied  Louarn;  "I 
have  a  sick  child  with  me." 

A  voice  from  the  obscurity  of  the  shop  at 
the  back,  broke  in  with  : 

"  Perhaps  it's  something  infectious.  Take 
care,  Alexandre;  we  don't  know  anything 
about  them." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  old  woman  !  "  said  the 
carpenter. 

He  turned  round  to  Louarn  who  had  bent 
over  the  little  carriage,  and  with  his  wet 
hands  over  which  his  tattered  shirt-sleeves 
fell  stiffly,  had  lifted  up  the  jacket  he  had 
thrown  over  Joel  and  Lucienne. 

It  was  still  raining,  and  in  the  half-light  of 


138  THE   PENITENT 

the  covering,  Lucienne  put  up  her  bright  and 
laughing  little  face,  while  Joel's,  yellow  as 
wax,  showed  no  change. 

"  Just  look  at  him  !  "  said  Louarn. 

The  carpenter's  grimace  expressed  much; 
he  had  seen  babies  die  before  now. 

"  There  are  two  doctors  in  the  town,"  he 
said;  "  try  one  of  them.  One's  an  old  man, 
not  a  bad  sort — rather  out  of  date " 

"  They  wouldn't  take  care  of  him  for  me," 
said  Louarn ;  "  that's  not  what  I  want.  I  want 
some  one  who  will  give  him  a  bed." 

"  I  don't  know  any  one." 

"  Or  a  hospital  ?  " 

"  There's  a  hospital  of  course,  but  it's  only 
for  the  people  about  here.  If  it  had  to  take 
in  everybody — everybody  just  passing  by,  you 
know " 

Louarn  let  the  jacket  fall  over  his  children, 
and  stretching  out  his  hand  in  the  rain  which 
whipped  his  cheeks,  he  cried  out  : 

"  Oh,  you  hard-hearted  people  !  Where  do 
you  want  me  to  go  ?  I  can't  let  him  die  !  " 

"  Hard-hearted  yourself  !  Who  forces  you 
to  tramp  the  country  and  beg — with  your 
brats  too,  to  excite  pity.  Be  off — we  know 
your  sort " 


THE   JOURNEY  139 

"  Here  you  tramp,"  said  a  hoarse  voice, 
"  where  are  your  papers  ?  ': 

A  big  man  in  a  knitted  jacket,  whose 
speech  and  manner  told  of  immense  assurance, 
was  looking  at  the  Breton  who  was  carefully 
turning  the  little  carriage  back  again. 

"  Yes,  I  say  !  Where  are  your  papers  ?  " 
You  can't  answer  ?  You  haven't  got  any  ? 
If  you  take  my  advice  you'll  pack  yourself 
off  !  You're  right  to  turn  back — and  be  off 
as  quick  as  you  can  !  ': 

And  he  laughed  the  contemptuous  laugh  of 
the  small  official  who  thinks  all  regulations 
right,  and  knowing  himself  backed  by  force, 
is  dead  to  the  reproach  of  Christ. 

He  never  failed  with  his  question :  "  Have 
you  got  your  papers  ?  "'  and  it  invariably 
succeeded,  the  poor  wretch  slunk  off  and  the 
town  was  rid  of  his  presence  and  his  rags. 

And  Louarn  did  the  same ;  he  had  begun  by 
resisting,  but  when  he  understood  the  facts, 
he  grew  afraid,  and  harnessing  himself  again 
to  his  beggar's  cart  he  lifted  the  pole  from  the 
mud. 

The  keeper  was  still  laughing,  his  hands  in 
his  waistcoat-pockets. 

But   Jean   Louarn   suddenly   straightened 


140  THE   PENITENT 

himself,  dread  of  seeing  his  child  die  had 
driven  the  blood  from  his  face  and  forced  his 
glittering  eyes  deeper  into  their  orbits. 

He  leapt  across  the  gutter,  went  up  to  the 
house,  and  bringing  his  gaunt  hands  together, 
leant  over  the  half-door  of  the  shop,  his  head 
and  shoulders  close  against  the  carpenter,  who 
paused  in  his  work. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "  my  friend,  I  don't 
know  you,  but  you  will  take  pity  on  me  !  " 

In  his  anguish  convention  was  forgotten 
and  he  said  "  tu." 

"  If  you  have  a  child  of  your  own,  take  pity 
on  mine,  and  come  with  me." 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  the  carpenter. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  answered  Louarn;  "only 
come — come  at  once  !     I  am  a  man  like  you— 
like  you  I  had  a  home  of  my  own  once — and 
now  I  have  nothing  !  " 

Words  such  as  these,  words  telling  of  such 
veritable  anguish,  such  an  appeal  to  brother- 
hood, the  master-workman  had  not  often 
heard,  and  they  touched  him;  his  spirit,  so 
dull  as  a  rule,  was  troubled,  and  his  hand 
betrayed  his  emotion  as  it  grasped  a  handful 
of  shavings  and  clasped  it  as  if  it  were  the 
hand  of  a  brother. 


THE   JOURNEY  141 

But  the  conscious  will,  slower  to  work  and 
affected  by  the  presence  of  that  listening 
bystander,  hesitated  still. 

And  Louarn,  receiving  no  answer,  and  seeing 
only  an  old  workman  standing  motionless  with 
bent  head  and  up  to  the  knees  in  white  wood- 
shavings,  turned  away  hastily  and  went  off. 

The  little  carriage  moved  on  again  with  its 
complaining  creak. 

He  had  gone  but  a  few  yards  when  he  heard 
the  steps  of  a  man  hurrying  to  catch  him  up, 
but  he  would  not  appear  to  notice  it — it  was 
probably  the  keeper  intending  to  see  him  off 
the  town-boundary. 

But  on  his  rain-numbed  shoulder  he  felt 
the  touch  of  some  one  walking  beside  him  and 
trying  to  keep  step  with  him,  and  the  man  was 
saying  : 

"  Well  now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it  ?  "  said  Louarn.  "  No, 
what  was  it  ?  "  and  he  went  on  without  even 
casting  a  look  at  the  man  to  whom  he  had 
appealed,  so  that  the  man  began  to  think  he 
was  mad. 

"  What  is  it,  my  poor  fellow  ?  "  he  asked 
once  more.  c  I've  left  my  work  to  help  you. 
What  do  you  want  ?  " 


142  THE   PENITENT 

They  had  already  left  the  village  behind 
them  and  were  walking  along  the  sodden  road, 
the  carpenter  with  bowed  head  as  if  expecting 
a  sad  story  to  be  confided  to  him,  Louarn  as 
usual,  facing  the  wind,  and  both  beaten  by 
the  rain  which  came  on  in  sudden  gusts  and 
ceased  as  suddenly. 

Then  at  last  the  Breton  began  to  speak, 
very  low,  breathing  out  his  words  towards  the 
scurrying  clouds,  and  sometimes  pausing  for 
a  dozen  steps,  when  his  heart  failed  him  or 
when  he  feared  he  might  speak  Donatienne's 
name. 

"  I've  had  troubles,"  he  said,  "  troubles  I 
can't  speak  about — but — you  must  believe  me 
they  were  through  no  fault  of  mine.  I  worked 
hard ;  I  did  no  one  any  harm ;  I  owned  a  pretty 
little  farm.  And  now  I  am  carrying  about 
with  me  all  that's  left  of  my  home — and  my 
little  Joel  is  dying — you've  only  to  lift  off 
the  jacket  I  put  over  him  and  feel  his  cheek- 
he' 11  die  if  you  don't  find  some  charitable 
person  who  will  take  him  in  and  look  after 
him  !  Tell  me  of  some  one  !  " 

For  a  moment  the  carpenter  was  silent, 
looking  about  him,  then  he  said  : 

"  Let's  go  up  here — I've  got  an  idea." 


THE   JOURNEY  143 

They  turned  aside  to  the  left  where  the 
ground  rose  and  formed  a  long,  bare  hill  a 
little  like  the  hills  of  Brittany,  and  crowned 
by  a  group  of  fir-trees. 

A  ray  of  sunshine  pierced  the  clouds  and 
raced  brightly  from  one  end  of  the  drenched 
plain  to  the  other. 

Louarn  squeezed  Noemi's  hand  as  he  went 
on  : 

"  I  can  take  with  me  only  this  one,  and 
Lucienne  who  can  walk  a  little.  But  when  I 
find  work  I  shall  earn  money  enough  to  have 
Joel  back  and  to  pay  any  one  who  has  kept 
him.  I  promise  you  that." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  his  com- 
panion. 

"  To  look  for  work." 

"  But  where  is  there  any  to  be  got  ?  " 

"  In  la  Vendee." 

"  That's  what  every  man  who  goes  past 
here  says,  but  we  don't  see  them  come  back 
again  !  "  answered  the  carpenter. 

But  his  confidence  grew  as  he  listened  to 
Louarn.  His  white  chin-tuft  wagged  over 
the  hedges  once  or  twice  as  if  he  were  looking 
for  some  one. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  it  grew  warmer  and 


144  THE   PENITENT 

the  damp  earth  steamed;  those  whose  work 
had  been  interrupted  by  the  wet  hurried  out 
again  to  finish  jobs  already  begun. 

The  carpenter  cast  the  eye  of  an  acquaint- 
ance at  the  folk  picking  up  chestnuts,  or 
harrowing,  or  driving  flocks  along  each  side 
of  the  lane,  but  he  did  not  stop. 

At  last,  as  the  sky  cleared,  he  caught  sight 
of  two  women  in  a  field  cutting  grass  with  a 
reaping-hook ;  they  had  not  noticed  him,  but 
he  called  to  them  and  they  came  up. 

He  showed  them  the  fever-stricken  child 
as  he  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  little  Ros 
Grignon  cart,  and  explained  matters. 

"I'll  answer  for  the  man,"  he  said;  "do 
just  what  he  wants." 

The  elder  of  the  two  poor  women  asked  : 

"  How  much  will  he  pay  ?  " 

They  discussed  the  question;  but  while 
they  were  trying  to  come  to  some  agreement, 
the  younger  woman  stooped,  made  a  cradle  of 
her  arms,  and  lifted  the  child  to  her  bosom, 
saying  : 

"  I'll  take  him  for  my  own  !  " 

It  was  an  act  of  adoption. 

An  hour  later,  amongst  the  pine-trees  at 
the  top  of  the  hill,  Lou  am  set  forth  from  the 


THE   JOURNEY  145 

farm  where  he  was  leaving  Joel.  When  he 
had  gone  a  short  distance,  yet  too  far  to  turn 
back  himself,  he  said  to  Noemi : 

"  Go  and  kiss  him  again." 

The  little  girl  ran  back  to  the  house  for 
a  moment  and  out  again  quickly. 

"  Go  again  !  "  said  the  father. 

Again  she  came  back,  and  again,  for  the 
third  time  he  sent  her  back,  saying  : 

"  Cuddle  him  as  if  you  weren't  going  to  see 
him  again  for  a  whole  week  !  " 

For  he  had  not  told  the  child  of  his 
plans. 

She  came  back  radiant. 

Then  he  approached  the  man  who  had 
brought  him  hither,  and  uncovering  his  head, 
thanked  him  in  few  words,  speaking  not  one 
too  many ;  afterwards  he  asked  him  : 

"  Which  is  my  road  now  ?  " 

The  other's  fortitude  was  even  less  than 
Jean  Louarn's;  he  could  not  speak  but  only 
pointed  to  the  east. 

And  Louarn  went  down  the  hill,  having 
now  but  two  of  his  children  with  him. 

He  walked  faster  and  faster,  never  looking 
back  so  long  as  any  light  was  left.  He  was 
like  one  distraught,  talking  to  the  objects 


K 


146  THE   PENITENT 

round  him,  saying  to  the  trees  :  "  See  what 
she  has  driven  me  to  !  " 

He  gave  way  to  rage  such  as  his  spirit  had 
never  before  experienced ;  he  accused  Donat- 
ienne;  all  the  woes  he  had  suffered,  was 
suffering,  and  must  still  suffer,  he  laid  to  her 
charge. 

"  Wicked  woman !  I've  been  forced  to 
give  up  your  baby ;  your  child  is  crying,  your 
husband  is  on  the  tramp,  and  look  at  Noemi, 
her  shoes  are  worn  to  bits  !  " 

But  when  his  tears  at  last  ceased  he  ended 
by  saying : 

"  Still  she  doesn't  know  what  has  happened 
to  me.  If  she  had  known  all  the  harm  she's 
done,  perhaps  she  would  have  come  !  ' 

So  he  travelled  onwards,  farther  and  farther 
from  the  spot  which  was  in  fact  the  boundary 
of  Brittany. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  he  saw  no  more 
waste  lands  and  wine  became  his  drink,  for 
the  farms  where  he  found  work  were  prosper- 
ous. He  was  no  longer  questioned  as  to  the 
place  he  came  from,  but  he  was  kept  at  a 
distance. 

"  A  rolling  stone  isn't  worth  much,"  people 
said  to  him ;  "  and  you  Bretons  are  so  fond  of 


THE   JOURNEY  147 

your  apple-trees  and  your  barren  fields  that 
it's  only  the  worst  of  you  that  forsake  them." 

He  found  fewer  and  poorer  lodgings ;  he  had 
to  sleep  in  pig-styes ;  several  times  he  had  to 
pay  for  the  night's  shelter,  not  only  at  the 
inns  into  which  the  cold  forced  him,  but  for 
the  hayloft  some  inhabitant  let  him  use. 
Hearts  seemed  harder  now;  the  year  was 
declining  and  already  the  nights  were  cold. 

Truly  the  way,  as  it  lengthened,  did  not 
become  less  difficult  as  Louarn  had  hoped. 

Sometimes  the  tramp  pondered  over  the 
many  days  that  had  gone  by  since  he  set 
forth,  and  ignorant  of  his  exact  whereabouts 
he  endeavoured  to  think  out  a  distance 
commensurate  with  the  time  it  had  taken — 
seven  wreeks,  eight  weeks,  nine  weeks.  But 
he  never  succeeded. 

Often,  too,  he  tried  in  vain  to  get  hired  at 
farms;  he  was  so  thin  that  his  strength  was 
doubted. 

He  would  ask  :  "  Are  there  any  potatoes 
to  dig  here  ?  "  and  the  answer  would  be  : 

"  Of  course  there  are,  but  we  don't  want 
any  more  hands,"  or  he  got  no  answer  at 
all. 

And  he  thought  to  himself:  "  I  can't  be  in 

K2 


148  THE   PENITENT 

Vendee  yet,  for  the  land  is  no  better  here  than 
at  home." 

Often,  too,  he  was  beset  by  evil  thoughts ; 
at  times  it  was  the  temptation  to  kill  himself 
— to  tie  a  stone  round  his  neck  and  throw 
himself  into  a  pond;  sometimes,  and  more 
frequently,  it  was  some  obscure  and  torment- 
ing moral  weakness  and  a  regret  for  all  the 
good  he  had  ever  done. 

"  What  have  I  gained,"  he  thought,  "  by 
loving  that  Donatienne  ?  Why  didn't  I  do 
like  her,  who's  made  a  fool  of  me  ?  Here  am 
I,  tramping  the  roads,  poorer  than  those  I 
used  to  give  alms  to,  burdened  with  the  sole 
charge  of  the  children  that  are  hers  as  well  as 
mine,  and  obliged  to  say  thank-you  for  a  bed 
of  straw  !  If  I  had  chosen — yes,  if  I  had 
chosen " 

He  thought  of  the  suggestive  words  spoken 
to  him  by  that  Plceuc  girl — the  girl  Donat- 
ienne herself  had  engaged  to  look  after  the 
house  during  the  first  months  of  separation. 
He  was  haunted  by  Annette  Domerc's  sly 
laugh  and  by  that  look  of  hers  which  had  left 
a  sort  of  secret  and  poisoned  sting  in  the  depths 
of  his  spirit. 

As  a  rule  he  shook  off  these  fancies  pretty 


THE   JOURNEY  149 

quickly,  and  remorsefully  looked  about  for 
something  to  support  him.  Then  he  would 
give  Noemi  or  Lucienne  a  score  of  kisses, 
speaking  gentle  words  to  them,  and  trying  to 
make  them  laugh,  as  if  the  children's  laughter 
meant  forgiveness  for  the  man ;  and  the  child- 
ren were  vaguely  perplexed  by  these  sudden 
endearments,  which  presently  grew  rarer  and 
rarer. 

And  from  hill  to  hill,  over  heavy  soils,  past 
woods  and  villages,  he  was  descending  to  the 
south-east.  He  had  passed  into  Mayenne,  to 
the  right  of  Ernee  and  the  left  of  Grand-Jouan. 

On  certain  days,  upon  the  hills,  he  was 
astonished  at  feeling  a  saltness  in  the  air ;  for 
he  was  near  the  great  valley  that  leads  to  the 
heart  of  France,  and,  without  knowing  it, 
was  nearer  to  the  sea  than  in  the  middle  of  his 
journey. 

One  evening  in  October,  walking  had  been 
difficult  because  of  the  rain  which  had  begun 
to  rot  the  roads,  falling  in  long-continued 
showers  under  a  gentle  wind. 

His  thoughts  ran  constantly  upon  the 
sowing — for  which  it  was  the  season,  and  his 
hand  opened  and  shut  as  if  upon  the  grains  of 
wheat  it  was  condemned  never  more  to  touch ; 


150  THE   PENITENT 

he  let  go  the  handle  of  the  little  cart,  then  took 
it  up  again.  There  was  a  feeling  of  storm  in 
the  air,  but  without  sound. 

Louarn  was  hungry,  Noemi  was  hungry, 
Lucienne  was  hungry. 

They  were  mounting  a  hill  whose  top  must 
be  very  far  off,  for  at  its  summit  could  be  seen 
the  tilt  of  a  waggon  jolting  along  and  looking 
no  bigger  than  a  rush-basket. 

The  day  was  dying,  but  it  was  one  of  those 
days  when  the  sun  sets  one  can't  tell  where, 
or  at  what  precise  moment;  only  the  sky 
showed  paler  spaces,  over  which  flew  smoke- 
like  clouds,  to  the  right  of  the  disappearing 
waggon. 

Not  a  roof  to  be  seen,  no  human  presence 
or  voice;  only  darkening  fields,  newly  dug, 
and  divided  by  the  vines  which  had  become 
more  common  beside  the  road  of  adventure 
the  Breton  travelled  during  the  last  week. 

Beyond  the  vines,  some  hundred  yards 
from  the  hill-top,  a  copse  of  swaying,  stunted 
oak-trees  drank  in  the  moisture  with  its 
leaves,  its  mosses,  its  funguses,  its  lichens, 
its  porous  soil. 

"  We  must  get  to  that  wretched  shelter," 
thought  Louarn;  "anyhow  there'll  be  some 


THE   JOURNEY  151 

bits  of  wood  for  my  cooking,  and  the  children 
ought  to  have  something  hot." 

It  took  him  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
reach  the  copse,  which  he  entered  by  a  dip 
in  the  slope,  leaving  the  little  cart  at  the  edge 
of  one  of  those  small  circular  spaces  left 
by  the  charcoal-burners  after  burning  the 
wood  they  had  cut  down.  Then  he  took 
from  the  cart  an  old  saucepan,  a  bottle  of 
water  and  five  big  turnips  some  one  had  given 
him. 

Noemi  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the  oak 
which  had  the  fewest  pools  of  water  about 
its  roots,  and  seating  her  sister  by  her  side, 
knotted  up  the  ends  of  their  two  grey  shawls 
which  had  come  undone,  and  set  to  work 
peeling  the  turnips  with  her  pocket-knife, 
while  her  father  went  out  to  look  for  dead 
wood. 

When  the  children  were  left  to  themselves, 
they  began  to  laugh,  with  sweet  little  laughs 
like  the  notes  of  birds  falling  upon  the  dying 
day  and  the  rain  and  reaching  the  path  close 
by  and  the  father  who  walked  thereon  in  a 
circle,  afraid  of  leaving  any  great  distance 
between  himself  and  them. 

And,  at  the  sound,  he  felt  as  if  the  last 


152  THE   PENITENT 

remnant  of  his  courage  failed  him  They 
could  not  realize  that  they  had  left  the  Breton 
land ;  that  they  moved  in  a  hostile  world ;  that 
the  winter  was  near;  that  the  weary  search 
for  those  chance  lodgings,  the  uncertainty  of 
life,  increased  as  time  went;  they  did  not 
suffer  the  sense  of  suffocation,  the  oppression 
of  the  mortal  darkness  that  haunted  the  wood 
and  might  well  have  caused  even  a  happy 
man  to  weep  ! 

With  a  couple  of  handfuls  of  damp  twigs 
and  three  of  moss  that  he  had  squeezed  like  a 
sponge,  Louarn  came  back  to  the  children. 

The  saucepan  was  full  of  water  and  the 
peeled  quarters  of  the  turnips;  he  picked  up 
some  stones  and  made  a  hearth  on  which  to 
put  the  wood,  then  struck  one  of  the  matches 
he  kept  in  his  old  horn  tobacco-box. 

The  wood  would  not  catch ;  there  was  noth- 
ing but  a  puff  of  smoke  which  disappeared, 
beaten  down  and  absorbed  by  the  drenching 
mist. 

"  We  must  have  some  dry  leaves,"  said 
Louarn;  "  take  the  matches,  Noemi.  I'll  go 
and  look  for  some  leaves.  It's  going  to  be 
very  cold,  to-night,  my  poor  children." 

He  was  standing  erect,  his  hair  clinging  to 


THE   JOURNEY  153 

his  bare  head,  and  he  was  looking  towards 
the  west  where  there  still  remained  a  long 
streak  of  3^ellowish  light — like  a  crushed  adder 
— a  last  gleam  of  light  between  the  earth  and 
the  low-lying  clouds,  so  low-lying  that  there 
seemed  no  air  beneath  them. 

Out  there,  Louarn,  out  there,  in  old  days 
when  evening  fell,  you  used  to  find  a  bright 
fire  lighted  by  another,  and  a  fond  greeting, 
and  loving  arms  held  out  to  you. 

"  Come,"  he  said  low  to  himself,  "  I 
mustn't  ever  look  back  there  again  now, 
never,  never.  It  will  be  a  cold  night,  my 
poor  children,"  he  said  once  more,  and  he 
turned  away  to  look  for  dry  leaves. 

In  her  turn  Noemi  was  trying  to  strike  the 
matches  and  laughing  as,  one  by  one,  they 
went  out  on  the  soft  air  and  the  falling  rain. 
Her  childish  laugh  slid  out  into  the  vast 
darkness. 

All  at  once  her  laughter  ceased,  and  her 
father,  some  fifty  yards  away,  heard  her 
speaking.  The  canopy  of  cloud  was  so  thick 
and  the  darkness  so  dense  that  he  could  not 
see  her;  he  could  scarce  see  his  own  hands 
groping  about  the  ground,  or  the  outline  of 
the  branches  against  the  smoke-grey  sky. 


154  THE   PENITENT 

She  was  speaking — Noemi — to  whom  ?  Not 
to  her  sister,  for  the  voice  of  children  speaking 
to  each  other  differs  from  that  they  use  to 
an  older  person.  Noemi  speaking  in  the  copse, 
answering  low-spoken  questions  ! 

The  wind  did  not  carry  to  that  side ;  Louarn 
drew  near,  stooping  cautiously,  his  heart 
beating  with  anger. 

If  it  should  be  a  tramp,  he  would  fight 
him.  Why  ?  Why,  because  he  had  forbidden 
Noemi  to  answer  tramps;  because  his  heart 
to-night  is  running  over  with  hatred  born  of 
suffering. 

He  turned,  clutching  the  leaves  he  had 
collected  and  walked  noiselessly  to  the  char- 
coal-burners' ring. 

Three  figures  were  bending  over  the  fire,  two 
small,  one  large,  and  he  heard  a  voice  saying : 

"  Give  me  the  matches,  child ;  I'll  light  it  all 
right." 

"  Don't  give  them  up,  Noemi !  "  cried 
Louarn;  "  I  forbid  you  to  !  " 

As  he  stood  there,  there  came  a  glimmer  of 
phosphorus,  and  then  a  flame  shielded  between 
two  big  hands,  and  in  the  sudden,  quick 
radiance,  from  the  rain-filled  darkness — its 


THE   JOURNEY  155 

features  drawn  in  strong  ruddy  lines — stood 
out  full  and  distinct,  the  three-quarters  view 
of  a  face,  for  one  moment,  to  be  swallowed 
up  in  the  gloom  the  next. 

It  was  a  woman;  she  looked  towards 
Louarn,  saying  : 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  make  the  soup  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Louarn,  "  be  off  !  I  don't 
want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you  !  " 

They  were  scarcely  three  yards  apart  and 
almost  of  the  same  height ;  the  woman  stooped, 
taking  no  notice  of  his  refusal,  and  lifted  a 
handful  of  wood.  There  rose  a  cloud  of  smoke 
and  then  a  flame  under  the  saucepan  which 
lit  up  the  grass,  and  the  stooping  children  and 
the  face  of  the  woman  as  she  sat  on  her  heels 
looking  the  Breton  over  from  head  to  foot  with 
a  laugh  full  of  extraordinary  impertinence, 
boldness  and  curiosity. 

A  second  time  she  said :  "  Would  you  like 
me  to  make  the  soup  ?  " 

"  No  !  " 

But  he  made  no  gesture  of  dismissal. 

She  had  abundant  black,  curly  hair  coiled 
on  the  top  of  her  head  and  wore  no  cap. 

For  a  long  moment  she  gazed  at  Louarn. 


156  THE   PENITENT 

The  fire  burst  into  a  blaze;  then  the  woman 
got  up  lightly,  and  still  keeping  her  eyes  on 
Louarn  said — but  now  in  a  heart-piercing 


voice 

u 


Tell  me — don't  you  want  me  to  make  the 
soup — every  day — as  long  as  you  please  ? 
You  can't  keep  these  children  alive !  you 
know  you  can't  !  " 

He  made  no  answer  and  walked  away  from 
the  circle  of  light  into  the  darkness  under  the 
pretext  of  collecting  more  wood  to  feed  the 
fire.  But  all  the  while  he  kept  looking  at  her 
as  she  stood,  still  young,  ugly,  and  vigorous, 
in  the  dancing  light. 

And  when  he  came  back  he  said  nothing 
more,  but  he  stayed,  and  he  ate  the  soup  she 
had  made. 

3jJ  5JC  5jC  5JC  3JC 

Three  days  later  the  travellers  were  going 
down  a  sandy  road.  They  were  four  now. 
The  woman — turned  out  of  some  travelling 
caravan  it  might  be,  or  perhaps  lately  liberated 
from  some  house  of  correction,  the  wanderer 
who  had  joined  another  like  herself — carried 
nothing  with  her  but  a  bundle  of  linen  slung 
upon  her  arm.  Little  Noemi  was  with  her, 


THE   JOURNEY  157 

walking  timidly  beside  her,  sometimes  running 
for  fear  of  falling  behind,  for  the  woman 
walked  fast,  never  waiting  for  Louarn  who, 
on  the  slope,  had  to  hold  back  the  little 
carriage  which  was  heavier  now  than  when 
it  started.  As  of  old  it  was  he  who  always 
dragged  Lucienne.  He  was  more  gloomy 
than  ever,  never  spoke  to  the  children,  and 
the  look  of  kindness  and  resignation  he  had 
worn  in  earlier  days,  was  his  no  longer,  not 
even  when  he  looked  on  the  companion  he 
had  accepted. 

As  for  her,  she  took  but  little  notice  of  him ; 
she  strode  along  at  the  side  of  the  road,  eyes 
for  ever  on  the  alert—the  eyes  of  the  habitual 
vagrant.  When  they  passed  near  an  orchard, 
she  jumped  the  hedge,  to  pick  up  apples  or 
pears  or  gather  bunches  of  grapes. 

Still  at  a  word  she  would  busy  herself  with 
the  children,  giving  them  to  eat,  or  carrying 
them  over  difficult  places  where  the  little 
cart  might  upset,  or  mending  their  frocks  or 
stockings  when  a  halt  was  made. 

She  did  it  all  indifferently,  showing  no 
eagerness,  and  making  no  objection;  and  she 
was  hardly  ever  without  a  bit  of  grass  at  the 


158  THE   PENITENT 

corner  of  her  mouth,  chewing  it  between  her 
white  teeth. 

So  in  silence  they  went  down  the  sandy, 
twisting  road — Louarn  in  the  middle  drawing 
Lucienne,  the  woman  on  the  left,  Noemi 
behind  her. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day;  the  luminous  air 
seemed  as  if  it  wished  to  bathe  and  heal  all 
autumn's  wounds.  Vines  spread  along  both 
sides  of  the  hedges  which  were  now  thinning 
and  full  of  wayfaring-tree,  barberry  and  hops. 

Almost  everywhere  the  vintage  was  going 
on,  and  the  smell  of  the  new  wine  was  wafted 
down  the  hillsides  towards  the  poplars  and 
the  yellowing  willows  below  the  vineyards. 

Never  before  had  Louarn  been  so  acutely 
sensible  of  the  heavy  perfume  which,  for  a 
month,  floats  about  the  hills  of  the  warmer 
and  hotter  provinces  of  France,  and  it  made 
him  feel  giddy. 

But  when  at  times  the  western  wind  blew 
cool,  the  gaunt  figure  stood  erect  once  more, 
and  Louarn  gazed  at  the  wind-swept  sky  as 
if  greeting  a  companion,  and  an  old  love  was 
re-born  in  his  spirit. 

At  the  last  turning  the  tramp  stopped  short, 


THE   JOURNEY  159 

and  his  silent  lips  murmured  for  his  own  ear 
alone  : 

"  The  sea  !  " 

At  the  bottom  of  a  meadow  as  level  as  a 
road,  there  flowed  a  great  river,  as  majestic 
as  one  of  those  arms  of  the  sea  that  intersect 
the  granite  rocks  of  Brittany,  with  their  tiny 
torrents  twisted  like  corkscrews. 

It  had  its  sandy  beaches,  its  little  bays, 
and  its  rippling  tides. 

And  Louarn,  whom  none  of  all  the  sights 
he  had  seen  on  his  travels  had  greatly  moved, 
taking  a  deep  breath,  exclaimed  : 

"  The  sea  !  the  sea  !  " 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdain- 
fully. 

"  Haven't  you  ever  seen  anything  ?  "  she 
asked;  "it's  the  Loire." 

They  went  on,  across  the  meadow  now, 
blown  upon  by  the  free  wind  which  drank  in 
the  scent  of  the  vintage  and  mingled  it  with 
its  own  foam-laden  perfume. 

Louarn' s  eyes  shone,  fascinated  by  the 
brightness  of  the  flowing  water. 

The  name  of  the  Loire  had  no  meaning  for 
him;  he  thought  of  waters  rising  and  falling 


160  THE   PENITENT 

on  the  strand ;  he  thought  too  that  Vendee  at 
last  must  be  on  the  other  side  of  that  water ; 
and  then  the  remembrance  that  he  was  about 
to  leave  Brittany  for  ever  contracted  his 
heart. 

Silent  and  pale-faced,  Louarn  slackened  his 
pace,  for  he  was  about  to  pass  over  what  he 
called  the  sea  and  what  in  truth  was  the  sea 
for  him — the  great  boundary  the  emigrant 
crosses,  never  to  return. 

The  woman  knew  nothing  of  what  he  was 
suffering;  but  Noemi  chancing  to  approach 
her  father,  he  took  her  hand  and  kept  it  in 
his. 

"  There's  a  sail !  "  cried  the  child;  "look  ! 
there's  a  sail !  " 

But  his  eyes  did  not  leave  little  Noemi, 
looking  upon  her  so  tenderly  that  she  looked 
wonderingly  at  him,  thinking  :  "  What  can 
be  the  matter  with  me  ?  " 

The  meadow  they  were  crossing  in  the  wind 
blowing  steadily  from  the  Loire,  was  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Varades,  but  some  distance 
from  the  town  and  the  bridge. 

As  they  neared  the  bank  Louarn  perceived 
a  man  making  ready  to  cross  the  river  in  his 


THE  JOURNEY  161 

boat,  and  hailing  him,  asked  him  to  put  them 
over. 

The  man  gazed  at  the  mean  caravan;  like 
many  of  the  peasants  of  the  valley,  he  was 
well-to-do  and  poverty  seemed  to  him  a 
crime. 

"  One  must  make  oneself  useful,"  he  said, 
'  but  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Call  your  wife — she's 
dawdling." 

At  the  word  "  wife  "  Louarn  shuddered  so 
violently  that  the  boatman — fed  on  white 
bread  and  wine — began  to  laugh ;  it  took  very 
little  to  amuse  him. 

Louarn' s  companion  was  picking  mush- 
rooms in  the  meadow  and  putting  them  into 
her  upturned  skirt.  In  spite  of  calls,  she 
came  on  slowly,  stooping  now  and  again  to 
add  to  her  store — their  supper  for  the  evening. 

As  she  approached,  the  peasant,  leaning  on 
his  pole  as  it  quivered  hi  the  current,  noticing 
the  woman's  frizzy  hair  and  impudent  and 
slovenly  look,  went  on  : 

"  It's  a  rotten  bad  business,  that  perpetual 
tramping  of  yours ;  there's  no  money  to  be  got 
out  of  it.  Come  on  !  get  aboard  !  " 

They  made  no  answer,  but  climbed  into 


162  THE  PENITENT 

the  flat-bottomed  boat  with  the  little  cart 
and  all  their  belongings. 

Louarn  sat  down  on  the  bench  at  the  bow 
of  the  boat,  Noemi  beside  him,  and  again  he 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  tight,  tight. 

But  he  did  not  speak,  nor  did  he  look  at  the 
child ;  his  eyes  roamed  over  the  shining  water 
on  which  the  boat  drifted  along,  and  then  to 
the  distant  shores  of  the  Loire  on  either  side. 

Noemi  was  delighted  at  thus  gliding  along ; 
she  no  longer  had  to  walk;  everything  was 
flowing  away  behind  her  instead.  Towards 
the  middle  of  the  river  she  felt  her  father's 
hand  holding  hers  even  tighter,  and  saw  the 
look  of  suffering  on  his  face  half-turned 
towards  the  flowing  waters  as  they  shone  in 
the  sunlight  even  to  the  distant  horizon. 

"  Darling,"  he  said  very  low,  "  doesn't  this 
great  water  remind  you  of  something  ?  " 

The  child's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of 
his  half -raised  hand,  and  she  shook  her  head, 
seeing  nothing. 

"  It  reminds  me  of  the  sea,"  her  father  went 
on  gently;  "as  if  it  might  be  Yfnniac  and 
the  strand  of  Guettes.  Don't  you  remember 
that  ?  " 


THE   JOURNEY  163 

This  time  the  little  voice  answered  :  "  No." 

"  You  don't  remember  your  grandfather 
Le  Clech  the  fisherman,  who  had  a  boat, 
too  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  We  wrent  to  see  him  once  with  you, 
with " 

He  had  been  about  to  say  "  with  your 
Maman  Donatienne,"  but  he  paused;  he 
bowed  his  head  towards  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  and  the  child  heard  him  say  : 

"  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world  !  " 

He  did  not  raise  his  head  till  they  reached 
the  opposite  shore. 

Then  Louarn  got  out  of  the  boat,  with  a 
word  of  thanks  to  the  peasant  who  had 
already  made  the  boat  fast  and  was  going 
off;  and  standing  erect  upon  the  sand  at  the 
foot  of  the  osier-beds,  facing  the  river,  his 
eyes  sought  but  one  sole  object — Brittany, 
already  in  the  far  distance — upon  which  they 
w^ere  looking  for  the  last  time. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  his  contemplation 
of  the  meadows,  the  hill-top  vineyards  passed 
an  hour  ago,  the  network  of  roads  running,  to 
the  north-west,  and  of  all  his  fancy  showed 

L2 


164  THE   PENITENT 

him  beyond,  that  he  let  Noemi  get  out  un- 
aided and  his  companion  pass  him  with  abuse 
while  she  dragged  the  little  cart  and  carried 
the  basket. 

He  was  left  alone,  his  whole  soul  yearning 
towards  his  native  country,  and,  despite  his 
resolutions,  going  out  to  the  places  where  he 
had  suffered  such  anguish,  and  so  suffering 
it  all  afresh. 

His  spirit  was  lost  among  farewells,  whose 
cause,  whose  cruelty,  whose  numbers  in  the 
narrow  circle  which  had  been  his  life,  were 
known  to  him  alone. 

From  the  willow-beds,  already  distant,  a 
voice  called  to  him :  "  Louarn,  are  you 
coming  ?  " 

He  awoke,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  Which  way  am  I  to  go  ?  " 

And  he  answered : 

"  Straight  on — always  straight  on."  Then, 
turning  round,  he  followed  the  poor  creature 
who  had  called  to  him,  and  they  went  on  their 
way,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  heart  of 
France. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A    LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE 


CHAPTER   IX 

A   LA  PETITE   DONATIENNE 

IT  was  eight  years  since  she  had  left  her 
husband,  her  children  and  the  Closerie  de  Ros 
Grignon  in  the  parish  of  Plceuc,  to  take  service 
in  Paris,  and  seven  since  Jean  Louarn,  on 
her  account,  his  goods  sold,  his  heart  betrayed, 
had  cast  himself  forth  from  Brittany  and 
taken  the  road  to  Vendee — the  road  that 
leads  everywhere,  or  anywhere. 

In  the  cafe  she  now  kept,  and  which  bore 
her  name — d  la  Petite  Donatienne — a  suburban 
cafe  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  Levallois- 
Perret,  a  customer  was  waiting  for  the  bowl 
of  coffee  she  had  just  placed  before  him  to 
cool. 

He  was  not  an  habitual  customer ;  elbows 
on  the  table,  his  head  bent  over  the  bowl  the 
steam  from  which  played  upon  his  shaven 
chin  and  the  heavy  colourless  moustache 

that  concealed  his  lips,  he  sat  looking  before 

167 


168  THE  PENITENT 

him  while  he  mechanically  stirred  the  black 
liquid  with  a  spoon. 

The  muscles  of  his  face  were  relaxed;  he 
was  resting ;  his  eyes,  the  light  full  upon  them 
— greenish  eyes  lit  up  by  a  vague  smile  born 
of  absence  of  worry  and  a  sense  of  well-being 
— were  fixed  on  the  fog  showing  above  the 
short  curtains  that  veiled  the  lower  panes 
of  the  shop-front. 

Still  he  felt  it  the  right  thing  to  say  an 
occasional  word,  in  accordance  with  the 
popular  prejudice  inherited  from  older  and 
kinder  days,  and  also  out  of  politeness  to 
his  chance  hostess,  unknown  to  him  and  not 
even  in  his  line  of  vision. 

She  was  sitting  to  the  left  of  the  room,  in 
the  cross  light  of  the  window  that  separated 
the  shop  from  the  street,  arid  she  was  knitting 
a  black  stocking,  as  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  do  all  her  life  since  the  far-off  days  when 
as  a  child  she  had  run  about  the  shore  at 
Yffiniac,  amongst  the  women  who  day  after 
day  wait  for  the  rising  tide  and  the  return 
of  the  vessels  scattered  over  the  expanse  of 
ocean. 

She  knitted  mechanically,  her  thoughts  no 


A  LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE     169 

more  with  her  work  than  those  of  her  cus- 
tomer on  the  fog  in  the  streets. 

What  she  was  actually  thinking  was  that 
this  customer  bored  her,  that  he  was  eating 
too  slowly,  that  she  ought  to  have  got  out 
before  this  to  buy  the  morning's  provisions; 
milkmen  were  already  coming  back  with 
empty  cans. 

Looking  at  the  man,  she  noticed  that  his  skin 
was  seamed  as  by  the  wind  when  scaffolding, 
and  that  there  lay  lines  of  whitewash  in  his 
wrinkles  which  fell  off  now  and  then  into  the 
coffee  he  kept  on  stirring. 

Neither  took  much  trouble  to  answer;  yet 
the  words  they  exchanged  with  so  little  care 
or  interest  led  them  unconsciously  to  one  of 
the  tragic  moments  of  life. 

"  So  you're  going  back  to  your  own  part 
of  the  country  ?  "  said  Donatienne. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mason,  "  now  November's 
coming;  it's  the  slack  season  for  us.  Till 
March  one  must  take  to  bricklaying.  Perhaps 
you  know  Gentioux  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  leave  Paris  myself.  Is  it 
pretty  country  about  there  ?  ' 

"Not  very;  besides  when  there's  nobody 


170  THE   PENITENT 

looking  out  for  you,  no  place  is  very 
beautiful." 

She  yawned  and  made  seven  or  eight 
stitches  without  answering,  in  the  hope  that 
her  customer  would  go.  He  put  on  his  felt 
hat,  bent  his  head,  lifted  the  bowl  with  both 
hands  and  drank  a  mouthful. 

"  It's  not  beautiful,"  he  went  on,  "  but  it's 
one's  own  country  and  anyhow  there  are 
always  acquaintances  to  see  again.  You  hear 
who's  dead  while  you've  been  away,  and  who's 
married  or  born.  When  I  get  back,  you  see, 
some  one's  always  waiting  for  me  to  be 
godfather." 

"  Indeed,  you  don't  say  so,"  said  the 
hostess. 

"  Maries,  Julies,  Hortenses,  Pierres,  Con- 
stants, Leonards,  right  enough.  We've  got 
all  sorts  of  names  in  la  Creuse 

He  laughed  and  blew  at  his  coffee. 

"  Just  fancy  !  I  even  know  one  little  boy 
called  Joel !  "  and  he  laughed  again. 

The  woman  had  got  up  suddenly.  Small, 
light-footed,  dressed  in  black,  her  knitting 
in  her  hand,  she  approached,  her  shining 
eyes  fixed  straight  on  his.  Her  bored  expres- 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE     171 

sion  had  disappeared,  but  her  cheeks,  still 
fresh-looking,  though  they  showed  a  network 
of  tiny  wrinkles  beneath  the  eyelids,  had 
turned  crimson. 

"  Tell  me  about  that,"  she  said. 

The  man  tried  to  take  the  hand  that  held 
her  knitting  as  she  held  it  out  imperiously; 
but  she  snatched  it  away  angrily. 

"  No  nonsense  !  " 

"  Don't  be  angry,  my  dear;  I  didn't  mean 
to  offend.  Well,  yes,  I  saw  a  boy  called 
Joel." 

"  How  old  ?  " 

"  Eight  or  nine." 

"  With  curly  hair  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember." 

"  Pretty  ?  " 

"  Of  course— like  all  of  them." 

Donatienne  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Look  straight  at  me  !  you  must  remember. 
I'm  interested  in  that  name,  your  speaking 
of  it  means  a  great  deal  to  me,  you  see — I 
once  knew  a  child  of  the  same  name.  Where 
does  yours  live  ?  " 

"  Some  distance  from  Gentioux,  where  my 
home  is — about  ten  or  twelve  miles  on  the 


172  THE   PENITENT 

way  back;  I  can't  remember  the  name  of 
the  place — it's  at  a  turning  out  of  the  high- 
road. We  saw  him  as  we  passed  by — me 
and  a  mate  of  mine — last  March — as  we  were 
walking  to  catch  the  train.  I  remember  a 
sort  of  little  garden  with  a  hedge  round  it 
and  some  poplar-trees.  The  little  boy  was 
playing  there,  and  my  mate  pointed  him  out 
to  me  and  said :  '  He's  called  Joel ;  he's  the 
son  of  a  man  that  works  in  the  quarries  up 
there;  he's  said  to  come  from  Brittany.' ' 

There  was  a  stifled  cry. 

"  Brittany  !  you're  sure  he  said  Brittany  ? 
Oh,  you  mustn't  lie  to  me — you  couldn't  do 
it !  I  want  to  hear — don't  deceive  me  !  " 

Her  hand  was  trembling  on  his  arm. 

"  There  was  a  little  sister  there,  too, 
wasn't  there  ?  " 

"  No,  a  tall  one,  and  by  no  means  ugly 
either — a  little  like  you " 

"  Tall,  you  say  ?  " 

'  Well,  tall  enough.  Pretty  bright  eyes, 
like  running  water." 

"  It's  Noemi !  "  said  the  woman  dreamily 
as  if  she  actually  saw  her;  "it's  Noemi! 
And  who  was  with  her  ?  " 


A  LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE     173 

"  What  other  children,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  saw  only  one  other  brat." 

"  A  girl  ?  " 

;'  No,  a  boy — he*  wore  breeches,  of  that  I'm 
sure." 

Donatienne's  face  changed. 

"  Then  it's  not  them — I  thought — what 
fancies  one  gets  into  one's  head  !  " 

She  let  go  the  man's  arm.  An  emotion 
she  could  not  master  contracted  her  heart, 
which,  under  the  double  shock  of  surprise 
and  deception,  went  out  involuntarily  to  this 
stranger. 

The  vain  hope  and  its  forcible  intrusion 
into  her  customary  life  had  made  her  so 
miserable,  that  she  said  : 

"  For  a  moment  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
find  my  own  again.  I've  had  three  children, 
myself — and  I  don't  know  where  they  are 
now — I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  !  Oh, 
you  understand  !  The  youngest  was  called 
Joel;  but  he  was  my  only  boy — the  others 
were  called  Noemi  and  Lucienne.  I'm  too 
much  given  to  worrying  myself,  you  see  !  " 

She   took    her  knitting-needles   from    the 


174  THE   PENITENT 

stocking  and,  with  a  pretence  at  laughter, 
drew  back,  while  the  man,  as  he  drank,  gazed 
at  her  over  the  rim  of  the  bowl. 

The  thing  troubled  him;  he  was  oppressed 
by  the  mysterious  grief  beside  him.  A  mother 
and  her  children — he  fancied  them  playing 
together;  and  then  to  leave  them.  Nothing 
in  the  world  would  have  induced  him  to 
question  her;  but  he  thought  of  similar 
stories  and  his  heart  was  full  of  a  vague  pity. 

He  drank  his  coffee  slowly, while  Donatienne, 
her  eyes  upon  her  work,  with  quivering  eyelids, 
knitting  at  random,  went  back  to  the  place 
where  she  had  been  sitting  at  first. 

She  felt  his  pity  following  her,  and  asked : 

"  Are  you  working  about  here  ?  " 

"No,  Madame;  I  came  here  for  the  con- 
tractor with  a  message  to  his  plaster-dealer. 
But  I  know  many  friends  of  yours  who've 
talked  about  you  to  me." 

"Never  mind  that;  but  as  you're  going 
home  for  a  time,  do  find  out  about  that  Joel ; 
and  you'll  come  and  tell  me  in  the  spring, 
won't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Madame;  it  won't  be  a 
bit  of  trouble  to  me." 


A   LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE     175 

He  took  five  sous  from  his  waistcoat-pocket, 
and  threw  them  011  the  marble-topped  table — 
once  more  the  careless  journeyman  of  every- 
day life. 

"  It  is  funny,  though,  isn't  it,  la  Patronne, 
that  down  in  la  Creuse  there  should  be  a  set 
of  ragamuffins  from  your  part  of  the  world — 
for  it  seems  you  come  from  Brittany,  too  ? 
No  offence  meant  or  taken,  is  there  ?  Au 
revoir." 

The  long  white  smock-frock  crossed  the 
room:  the  man's  head  and  shoulders — his 
close-cut  hair  almost  hidden  by  the  white- 
wash-sprinkled felt  hat — were  framed  be- 
tween the  door-posts,  then  showed  for  a 
moment  to  the  right,  hi  the  fog  of  the  street 
above  the  short  curtains  of  the  shop-front. 
At  last,  Donatienne,  whose  eyes  had  followed 
the  shadowy  figure,  saw  it  disappear,  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  vastness  of  Paris;  but  she 
still  gazed  at  the  spot  where  she  had  lost 
sight  of  him,  till  the  passing  of  a  carriage  in 
the  milky  light  destroyed  the  last  trace  of 
the  vision. 

Then  the  woman  knitted  her  brows  in  the 
imperious  and  discontented  fashion  that  had 


176  THE   PENITENT 

been  her  habit  of  old,  when,  as  a  child,  she 
wanted  to  get  her  own  way  with  her  parents, 
and  she  had  always  got  it.  But  life  was  not 
as  obedient  as  her  father  and  mother. 

Donatienne  went  into  another  room  be- 
yond, a  narrow  kitchen;  took  up  a  basket, 
came  back  into  the  cafe  and  was  about  to 
go  out,  her  hand  already  on  the  copper  door- 
handle, when  a  thick  voice  behind  her  called 
out : 

"  Have  you  forgotten  the  master  of  the 
house,  by  any  chance  ?  " 

Once  more  the  woman's  expressive  face 
took  on  its  look  of  irritation ;  but  desiring  to 
get  out  and  wishing  to  avoid  an  explanation, 
she  said  quickly  : 

"  Your  coffee  is  on  the  stove;  you've  only 
got  to  take  it." 

"  That  man  drank  some  of  it,  didn't 
he?" 

"  I  gave  him  mine.  Come,  go  back  to 
bed." 

She  took  hold  of  the  door-handle. 

"  Stop  !  " 

A  man  had  come  out  of  the  next  room  and 
walked  towards  her — a  man  whose  pasty  face 


A   LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE     177 

wore  that  expression  of  foolishness  and  anger 
combined,  so  often  seen  in  drunkards. 
"  Stop,  I  tell  you  !  " 

His  red  leather  slippers,  trodden  down  at 
heel,  shuffled  over  the  boards;  he  had  on 
only  a  pair  of  dark-blue  cloth  trousers  with 
yellow  binding,  and  a  nightshirt,  which 
stuck  up  over  his  waistband,  and  with  un- 
buttoned collar  which  displayed  his  thick 
red  throat  where  beneath  the  distended  skin 
the  pulsation  of  the  arteries  was  visible. 

He  must  have  been  a  handsome  man  in 
earlier  days;  but  indolence  had  given  him 
weight;  his  shaven  face  with  its  short,  light- 
coloured  eyebrows  was  too  full;  his  hands, 
covered  with  yellow  hairs,  were  too  fat,  and 
his  eyelids  drooped  over  eyes  in  which 
confused  ideas  struggled  against  sleep. 

"  What  more  do  you  want  to  say  to  me  ?  " 
asked  Donatienne. 

He  crossed  his  arms. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you  were  saying  to 
that  fellow." 

"  You're  jealous  again,  are  you  ?  v 

"  Perhaps  I  am." 

"Jealous  of  that  stone-breaker!" 

M 


178  THE  PENITENT 

She  gave  a  sudden  nervous  laugh,  louder 
than  she  had  meant  it  to  be,  and  for  a  second, 
in  the  scornful  face,  the  posture  of  the  angry 
and  contemptuous  woman,  in  the  turn  of  the 
head,  which  still  kept  its  purity  of  outline, 
her  likeness  to  the  exceedingly  pretty  Bretonne 
of  bygone  days  was  visible. 

"  Yes,  you  were  leaning  over  him — like 
this — you  were  listening  to  him — you  took 
hold  of  his  arm.  Don't  tell  me  you  didn't, 
for  I  saw  you  from  the  top  of  the  staircase." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"So  I'm  to  give  you  an  account  of  all  my 
doings  now  !  Not  if  I  know  it !  Are  we 
man  and  wife  ?  Oh,  indeed  !  ': 

"  What  was  he  saying  to  you  ?  " 

"  That's  my  affair  !  " 

"  Donatienne  !  " 

He  made  as  if  to  take  up  a  chair  to  strike 
her  with.  Then  Donatienne  dropped  the 
basket,  ran  straight  at  the  bully,  and  lifting 
herself  up  against  him  on  her  little  feet,  faced 
him  with  uplifted  head,  battle  and  hatred 
in  her  eyes. 

"  All  right !  "  she  cried;  "  hit  me  !  What 
prevents  you  !  Kill  me,  if  you  like  !  Do  you 


A   LA  PETITE   DONATIENNE     179 

think  my  life  with  you  is  so  pleasant !  I 
detest  it,  I  tell  you,  and  you  too  !  Take 
yourself  off !  What  are  you  waiting  for  ? 
Don't  imagine  I  am  going  to  obey  you — you 
— a  man  I  keep  !  " 

Her  features  were  distorted  with  anger; 
the  weary,  withered  woman  she  would  soon 
be  could  be  foreseen  at  this  moment.  A 
tooth  was  missing  at  one  side  of  her  mouth ; 
the  rest  still  shone  fine  and  white;  and  her 
eyes,  too,  shone  like  the  crests  of  foam- 
covered  waves. 

Again  she  said  :  "  Yes — that  I  keep  !  " 

The  last  shaft  went  home,  but  the  man 
attempted  to  answer : 

'*  There's  no  work  to  be  got — you  know 
that  quite  well." 

"  No — not  for  cowardly  wretches  like 
you !  ':  and  growing  more  furious  as  he 
gave  in,  she  went  on :  "I  tell  you  again  I'm 
tired  of  you ;  you've  no  hold  on  me,  and  some 
day  I'll  prove  it  to  you  !  " 

"  You're  too  old  !  "  he  sneered. 

"  Not  to  go  away  from  here  !  " 

The  man  half  closed  his  eyes  and  said 
between  his  teeth : 

M2 


180  THE   1PENITENT 

'  Where  would  you  go  to  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  while  each  thought 
upon  that  weighty  question  :  "  Where  would 
you  go  to  ?  "  and  the  great  difficulty  there 
must  needs  be  in  keeping  themselves  if  they 
forsook  their  sinful  life  and  cast  each  other 
off. 

Donatienne  felt  herself  slipping  again  into 
the  vile  subjection  that  was  now  her  life; 
she  gave  up  the  discussion,  turned  away  and 
went  out. 

When  she  found  herself  out-of-doors,  she 
felt  angry,  but  still  more  unhappy;  with  her 
bodily  eyes  she  saw  the  Levallois  houses,  but 
the  eyes  of  her  spirit  looked  upon  the  vision 
of  all  she  had  to  do,  only  to  go  back  again 
to  everything  as  usual. 

She  was  past  the  age  when  the  mind  is 
easily  diverted,  and,  try  as  she  might  to  put 
aside  memories  or  thoughts  of  the  future, 
there  were  moments  when  she  caught  glimpses 
of  the  dreary  depths  of  her  soul.  But  never 
perhaps  had  they  been  so  clear  to  her  as  this 
morning.  The  unexpected  talk  with  the 
stone-mason  of  la  Creuse;  the  quarrel  with 
her  lover,  how  they  showed  up  her  wretched- 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE     181 

ness  and  brought  to  mind  the  painful 
memories  of  the  loneliness  which  had  always 
been  her  trouble  since 

Through  the  fog,  polluted  by  smoke,  drunk 
and  cast  forth  again  by  sewers,  beasts  and 
human  beings,  and  which  had  washed  the 
roofs  and  walls  before  falling  on  the  pave- 
ments, she  walked  with  bent  head,  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  the  dairy-woman  asking  her  if 
she  didn't  want  any  milk,  and  to  that  of  the 
greengrocer  next  door  as  she  bade  her  good- 
morning — a  young  woman  burdened  with 
three  children,  and  whose  trying  life  sometimes 
made  her  envy  the  mistress  of  the  cafe,  who 
was  not  encumbered  by  a  family  and  who 
passed  for  rich  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Donatienne  walked  on  unconsciously,  every 
faculty  of  her  spirit  turned  inwards — as  was 
unusual  with  her — and  absorbed  by  one  only 
thought — her  children. 

She  had  always  been  unhappy  about  them. 
In  the  early  days  after  she  had  left  Ros 
Grignon,  she  used  to  shed  tears  when  she 
spoke  their  names  to  her  own  heart — Noemi, 
Lucienne,  Joel,  especially  the  last  whom  she 
had  suckled  at  her  departure  and  of  whom 


182  THE   PENITENT 

her  nursling  in  Paris  reminded  her.  She 
remembered  the  sweetness  of  the  little  lips, 
formed  from  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  and 
which  still  drew  life  from  her  as  she  pressed 
him  to  her  bosom. 

Oh  !  if  only  he  could  have  been  with  her — 
Joel  the  child  given  by  God ;  if  she  could  have 
put  her  arms  round  the  others  once  a  week 
even,  she  felt  as  if  the  children  might  have 
protected  her  from  the  temptations  of  plea- 
sure, the  corruption  of  novelty,  from  evil 
example. 

Many  a  time,  when  remorse  first  seized 
her,  when  she  had  but  half  consented  to  the 
evil,  she  had  cried  out  in  secret : 

"  My  children,  save  me  !  "  but  they  were 
too  far  away,  and  the  child  she  nursed  was 
not  her  own  and  had  no  such  protecting  power, 
and  on  all  sides  she  was  encompassed  by 
dangers,  this  poor  Breton  woman,  unarmed 
against  so  many  foes. 

The  women-servants  amongst  whom  she 
lived  in  her  first  situation  in  the  Rue  de 
Monceau,  were  not  all  immoral,  but  they 
were  all  loose  in  their  talk  and  accustomed 
to  make  little  of  things  that  Donatienne 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE    183 

thought  wrong.  Those  of  them  who  were 
without  lovers  were  never  tired  of  repeating 
that  the  only  reason  for  their  good  conduct 
was  the  greater  facility  it  gave  them  to  get 
married. 

They  had  no  respect  for  any  action  as 
such,  but  looked  upon  it  merely  in  the  light 
of  the  profit  that  might  be  got  out  of  it. 
Several  of  them  appeared  to  be  cleverer 
than  Donatienne  and  were  given  to  expressing 
pert  opinions  on  every  subject. 

Donatienne  listened  to  them  all  the  more 
willingly  because,  seeing  how  easily  she  was 
influenced,  they  would  say  : 

"  You're  very  pretty,  you  know,  Dona- 
tienne, with  your  nurse's  ribbons  and  your 
Ploeuc  cap.  Everybody  turns  to  look  at 
you  when  you  go  by." 

She  knew  it  only  too  well. 

The  women  told  her  so  to  curry  favour, 
as  unscrupulous  servants  must  needs  do,  and 
because  she  earned  high  wages. 

The  men  told  her  so  even  more  insistently, 
and  things  themselves  combined  to  ruin  her. 

She  was  so  young,  so  feather-brained,  so 
vain,  and  so  eager  for  pleasure  !  Luxury 


184  THE   PENITENT 

meant  happiness  to  her;  day  by  day  her 
moral  sense  was  confused,  intoxicated, 
lessened,  by  the  sight  of  the  money  spent 
around  her,  by  the  touch  of  too  many  rich 
stuffs,  the  silks,  ribbons,  laces,  she  handled; 
by  the  shamelessly  open,  or  secret,  call  of 
the  town,  never  ceasing  by  day  or  night, 
which  lays  hold  on  the  imagination  after 
taking  the  eyes,  the  memory  and  the  heart, 
grown  so  weak — so  very  weak. 

In  six  months  she  had  gone  far  on  the 
road  to  ruin.  She  had  left  off  writing  to 
her  husband — it  was  known  that  she  was 
married  to  a  clodhopper.  Poor  Louarn  ! 
She  was  the  first  to  laugh  at  him,  when, 
in  the  servants'  hall,  or  when  they  were 
taking  tea  in  the  evening  in  the  cook's 
room  when  the  masters  were  out,  she  was 
asked  : 

"Is  it  really  true,  Donatienne,  that  you 
used  to  dig  the  ground  and  reap  the  harvest  ? 
That  fellow  must  have  been  a  heartless  one  ! 
I  should  like  to  see  his  portrait.  Have  you 
got  one  ?  Do  show  it  to  us." 

They  all  talked  after  this  fashion,  the 
women  dwelling  on  the  number  of  children 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE     185 

she  had  had — three  in  five  years — and  pitying 
her  for  her  past  life  which,  but  for  them, 
she  might  sometimes  have  thought  of  with 
tenderness. 

The  coachmen,  the  footmen,  the  butlers, 
both  in  her  employers'  service  and  on  other 
flats,  all  made  love  to  her  more  or  less. 

They  were  attracted  by  her  freshness,  by 
her  pretty  costume,  by  her  mingled  fearless- 
ness and  discretion;  she  seemed  to  them  to 
belong  to  a  stranger  race. 

She  came  simply  of  good  stock — imagin- 
ative, somewhat  foolish  and  vain,  and  she 
laughed  more  often  than  others;  but  in  fact 
she  was  more  upright,  because  her  past  had 
been  a  better  one,  and  she  allowed  fewer 
liberties. 

Then,  too,  she  was  treated  in  a  different 
way,  living  on  her  mistress's  floor,  spoilt 
with  presents  as  nurse,  and  this,  too,  placed 
her  apart  and  exposed  her  to  complimentary 
attentions. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  her  nursling  died 
almost  suddenly  of  some  obscure  malady. 
Donatienne  wept  for  him,  and  she  was  fright- 
ened as  well  as  grieved,  for  this  must  needs 


186  THE  PENITENT 

alter  her  life.     She  felt  very  weary,  and  the 
flow  of  her  milk  had  almost  stopped. 

Some  days  went  by ;  she  was  still  sleeping 
on  her  mistress's  floor,  out  of  consideration 
for  herself  and  until  the  flow  of  milk  had 
ceased. 

One  evening  Madame  sent  for  her.  She 
was  very  kind ;  despite  the  pangs  of  her  own 
maternal  heart,  she  found  pitying  words  for 
the  other  woman  who  had  suckled  the  dead 
child  and  with  whom  she  had  so  to  speak 
shared  her  motherhood. 

A  fair-haired,  pale-faced  woman,  dressed 
in  deep  mourning. 

"Nurse,"  she  said  in  conclusion;  "nurse, 
you'll  stay  on  with  us,  won't  you  ?  It  will 
be  a  sort  of  way  of  paying  my  debt  to  you— 
you  looked  after  him  so  well !  Besides,  after 
the  misfortune  that  has  happened  to  us,  who 
knows  what  your  Bretons  at  home  might  say  ? 
And  then,  my  poor  girl,  you  can't  wish  to 
endure  such  poverty  afresh  ?  If  you  will 
stay  on  as  my  second  housemaid,  I  will  keep 
you.  Only  I  can't  let  you  live  on  this  floor 
then." 

The  young  woman  was  sincerely  convinced 


that  she  was  performing  a  charitable  action 
and  doing  the  right  thing.  Lapped  in  luxury, 
she  pitied  poverty  as  the  worst  of  all  evils; 
she  had  need  have  been  a  saint  to  do  other- 
wise. Moreover  she  was  well-nigh  ignorant 
of  what  became  of  her  servants  up  above 
after  ten  o'clock  at  night;  like  other  people, 
she  had  no  means  of  knowing;  and  it  was 
quite  true  that  in  the  fine  flat  in  the  Rue  de 
Monceau,  there  was  no  room  for  the  servants 
to  be  put  up  near  their  employers.  Custom 
was  to  blame,  or  the  architect,  or  the  owner, 
or  the  neighbours,  who  did  just  the  same; 
or  the  price  of  land,  or  the  incomes  which 
could  not  run  to  a  whole  house;  or  to  the 
distance  created  by  ignorance,  distrust  and 
hatred — the  insecurity  and  fragility  of  the 
relations  between  servants  and  masters;  or 
the  fatal  belief  that  each  individual  is  re- 
sponsible only  for  himself  alone;  or  the 
youthfulness  of  this  woman  of  twenty-five 
who  had  never  had  time  to  think  upon  these 
matters  and  to  whom  her  mother  had  never 
spoken  of  them; — and  Donatienne  was  lost. 
She  knew  that  soiled  corridor  on  the  sixth 
floor — the  attics  with  their  divisions  pierced 


188  THE   PENITENT 

with  holes  you  stuffed  with  paper;  the 
laughter,  the  dubious  talk,  the  importunities, 
the  knockings  on  the  door  at  night  when  the 
men  returned  from  the  theatre  or  the  cafe; 
the  cabals,  the  taking  of  sides  that  followed, 
the  jealousies;  the  doors  that  opened  at  an 
arranged  signal;  the  summons  of  the  electric 
bells  which  made  ten  men  swear  and  one 
woman  go  downstairs;  and  the  entertain- 
ments under  the  roof  which  began  like  those 
lower  down — save  for  the  mise-en-scem— 
and  ended  in  debauchery. 

Escape  was  more  difficult  for  Donatienne 
than  for  others. 

She  became  the  mistress  of  a  footman,  a 
very  good-looking  man,  celebrated  for  his 
successes  with  women;  his  livery  hiding  his 
impudence,  and  his  tongue  criticizing  the 
people  he  served  with  the  assurance  and 
wealth  of  knowledge  of  a  man  of  twenty- 
eight  who  could  already  count  fifteen  years 
of  service  in  all  sorts  of  circles  in  Paris. 

He  was  very  proud  of  his  conquest.  It 
was  about  this  time  that  Donatienne  was 
receiving  those  imploring  letters — which  she 
did  not  answer ;  the  letters  in  which  Louarn 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE 

told  her  of  the  approaching  sale  of  their 
furniture  at  home.  She  did  not  believe  it; 
her  lover  said  to  her :  "  It's  to  get  you  back 
again,  or  else  to  blackmail  you ; "  and  she  sent 
no  money  nor  did  she  start  to  save  the  Closerie 
de  Ros  Grignon.  The  last  two  letters  were 
not  even  given  to  her,  so  that  she  might  be 
told  :  "  You  see  they've  forgotten  you,  and 
what  humbug  it  was  about  your  household 
goods  in  Brittany !  They  don't  even  write 
now  !  ' 

Oddly  enough,  about  the  same  time  she 
asked  permission  to  leave  off  wearing  her 
Breton  cap;  now  that  she  was  no  longer 
nurse,  less  seen  out-of-doors,  and  not  forming 
a  part  of  the  outside  luxury  of  the  house,  it 
mattered  little. 

So  she  took  off  the  two  bands  of  muslin, 
rolled,  goffered,  put  on  after  the  fashion  of 
the  parish  of  Plceuc;  folded  them  up,  three 
caps  in  all,  and  packing  them  away  with  the 
many-pleated  thick  woollen  gown,  wore  them 
no  more. 

She  wore  hats  now,  she  waved  her  hair  and 
coiled  it  high  on  her  head,  and  became  one 
of  the  crowd.  It  completely  changed  Dona- 


190  THE   PENITENT 

tienne;  it  would  have  needed  a  very  keen 
observer  to  recognize  aught  of  Brittany  in 
this  little  bright-eyed,  wide-awake,  shrewd 
maidservant — with  her  nervous  laugh  and 
sad  smile. 

The  summer  went  by;  Ros  Grignon  was 
forsaken  and  she  knew  nothing  of  it. 

She  thought  often  of  her  children  and 
would  fain  have  had  news  of  them ;  and  at 
moments  also  remorse  took  hold  of  her.  In 
her  early  youth  she  had  been  pious;  a  rem- 
nant of  religion  still  remained  in  her  heart, 
and  she  knew  hers  was  an  evil  life ;  but  such 
thoughts  came  but  seldom  and  lasted  but  a 
little  while. 

Far  away,  in  the  land  of  poverty,  for 
protection  or  retrieval,  she  would  have  had 
the  Feasts  of  the  Church  with  the  devout 
practices  they  brought — High  Mass  and  the 
sermons  of  the  Cure  of  Plceuc,  missions, 
baptisms,  the  tolling  of  the  death-bell ;  thrice 
a  day  the  ringing  of  the  Angelus  summoning 
all  to  prayer.  She  would  have  had  the 
example  of  the  aged  women  of  the  parish, 
who  paid  occasional  visits  to  the  farm — a 
little  sententious  and  twraddling,  perhaps, 


A  LA  PETITE  DONATIENNE     191 

but  leaving  behind  them  the  wish  to  lead  a 
good  life. 

She  had  nothing  of  the  sort  in  Paris — a 
Low  Mass,  perhaps,  if  Madame  thought  of  it, 
at  the  hour  the  mistress  herself  permitted 
and  arranged. 

September  came,  and  she  was  in  a  country- 
house  outside  Paris,  her  way  of  life  unaltered. 

But  she  was  so  tortured  by  anxiety  at 
receiving  no  further  news  that  she  disobeyed 
her  lover's  orders. 

She  wrote  to  "  Mademoiselle  Noemi  Louarn, 
Closerie  de  Ros  Grignon,  en  Plceuc,  Bretagne," 
and  asked  how  every  one  was. 

A  week  passed  bringing  no  news,  and  she 
thought  Louarn  must  have  learnt  what  she 
had  become,  and  accused  her  husband  of 
preventing  Noemi  answering. 

To  find  out,  she  wrote  to  the  girl  she  herself 
had  chosen  to  do  the  work  of  the  house  and 
look  after  the  children. 

She  asked  Annette  Domerc  :  "  Why  don't 
they  write  ?  " 

This  time  there  was  no  delay  in  the  coming 
of  the  brutal  answer  : 

"  So  you  don't  know  that  everything  is 


192  THE   PENITENT 

sold  ?  You  haven't  got  any  home  now,  and 
your  man  has  gone  away.  He  started  for 
Vendee  and  took  the  children  with  him." 

"  Gone  away  !  Taken  !  ':  Where  were 
they  ?  Nobody  knew,  neither  the  Mayor, 
nor  the  Cure,  nor  the  Abbe  Hourtier,  who  had 
received  no  letter  from  Louarn. 

Then  despair  seized  Donatienne — a  passion- 
ate and  violent  anguish. 

She  broke  with  her  lover,  accusing  him, 
truly,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  of  having 
kept  back  Louarn's  last  letters;  she  refused 
food ;  she  wept  for  a  whole  week,  incessantly 
repeating  :  "  Noemi,  Lucienne,  Joel !  v 

Allowances  were  made  for  her,  because 
she  was  so  quick  and  clever  a  servant,  and 
because  she  had  been  the  dead  child's  nurse; 
but  it  was  not  long  before  her  health  gave 
way,  and  one  November  afternoon  she  was 
hurried  off  to  the  hospital,  the  doctor  having 
pronounced  it  to  be  enteric  fever. 

Three  daj^s  later,  her  mistress  sent  to  inquire 
after  her,  and  speaking  to  some  guests  before 
going  in  to  dinner,  said  : 

"  You  remember  that  little  maid  I  had— 
the  Bretonne  ?  Well,  she's  very  bad— 


A  LA  PETITE   DONATIENNE     193 

temperature  much  above  a  hundred  the  day 
after  she  left  us.  She  was  very  nice,  wasn't 
she  ?  And  so  good — such  a  good  mother; 
indeed  I  think  it's  her  love  for  her  children 
that's  killing  her.  A  drunken  husband  prob- 
ably, who  has  taken  them  off  and  leaves  her 
without  news.  Sad,  isn't  it  ?  " 

And  Donatienne  came  very  near  dying 
in  fact,  and  her  recovery  was  very  slow. 

When  she  left  the  hospital,  she  was  still 
so  weak  that  she  could  not  dream  of  taking 
another  situation  at  once;  so  poor  that  she 
had  but  just  enough  to  live  upon  for  a  few 
weeks;  and  so  changed  in  appearance  that 
she  was  ashamed  to  go  back  to  the  Rue  de 
Monceau,  where,  though  her  place  as  second 
housemaid  was  no  longer  to  be  had,  she  would 
assuredly  have  been  helped  in  some  way  or 
other,  a  good  character  given  her,  and  been 
sent  to  some  friend  in  want  of  a  really  decent 
girl. 

She  shrank  from  meeting  in  that  house  the 
man  she  now  detested  and  letting  him  and 
the  others  see  her  with  her  hair  grown  thin 
upon  her  temples,  and  her  hollow  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  which  had  become  somewhat  unequal 


194  THE   PENITENT 

and  which  she  found  difficult  to  fix  steadily 
on  anything  without  squinting. 

She  took  a  furnished  room,  not  knowing 
what  she  could  do  when  she  had  to  quit  it, 
as  is  the  fate  of  so  many  servants  after  dis- 
missal or  discharge  from  a  hospital. 

She  had  thought  of  returning  to  Brittany; 
but  what  means  of  livelihood  could  she  find 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Plo3uc  ?  How  could 
she  earn  anything  in  that  poverty-stricken 
place,  where,  moreover,  every  one  must  be 
thinking  ill  of  her  since  Louarn  went  ?  They'd 
make  her  suffer  for  it — yes,  suffer  cruelly; 
and  she  was  suffering  so  much  already,  and 
the  melancholy  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the 
natives  of  the  Breton  coasts  had  become  so 
definite  an  anguish  ! 

An  attempt  she  made  towards  reconciliation 
with  her  parents,  the  fishers  of  Yffiniac,  failed, 
when  she  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she 
could  bring  home  neither  any  savings  nor  any 
chance  of  employment;  and  poverty  was 
coming  very  near  her. 

Before  she  had  quite  regained  her  strength, 
Donatienne  risked  her  last  twenty  francs  at 
a  registry-office  and  obtained  a  fresh  situation 


A  LA  PETITE   DONATIENNE     195 

with  a  society-woman  who  had  two  daughters 
to  marry.  She  had  to  leave  because  she  had 
to  sit  up  every  night,  and  it  was  the  furnished 
lodgings  again,  then  utter  despair,  and  then 
once  more  the  life  of  sin. 

She  had  no  thought  now  of  attracting  or 
dazzling  any  man;  her  dread  was  that  she 
might  die  of  hunger. 

And  so,  unseduced  by  desire,  yielding  more 
easily  than  that  first  time,  shutting  her  eyes, 
ashamed  but  resolved  as  though  she  were 
leaping  into  the  river,  she  "  took  up  "  with 
another  man — to  use  the  vulgar  expression — 
an  ex-coachman,  well-to-do,  a  brute  and  a 
drunkard,  who  had  left  service  and  wanted 
to  buy  a  business. 

Needless  to  say,  he  bought  a  cafe,  and 
expected  Donatienne  to  make  it  pay. 

For  six  years  they  had  lived  together, 
looked  upon  in  their  Levallois  quarter  as 
husband  and  wife.  She  looked  after  the  house 
and  kitchen,  served  the  customers,  except 
during  the  hour  every  morning  when  she  went 
out  to  buy  provisions ;  she  kept  the  accounts ; 
she  mended  the  linen  in  her  spare  moments. 

The  cafe  was  a  success,  thanks  to  Dona- 


N  2 


196  THE   PENITENT 

tienne's  energy  and  spirit  of  order,  the  kind 
of  authority  over  her  surroundings  that  came 
naturally  to  her,  and  to  her  habit — a  habit 
which  charmed  her  suburban  customers — of 
always  speaking  politely. 

Bastien  Laray,  the  man  with  whom  she 
lived,  was  of  little  or  no  use;  he  spent  the 
whole  day  out-of-doors  on  the  pretext  of 
seeing  to  the  replenishment  of  the  cellar  or 
renewing  the  advertisements,  or  even  of  look- 
ing for  a  situation  as  chauffeur — which  he 
would  have  been  much  disgusted  to  find.  He 
could  do  better  than  that ;  he  had  his  pension ; 
he  came  home  drunk  three  days  out  of  four. 

Donatienne  led  him  because  she  was  cleverer 
than  he,  but,  before  yielding,  he  beat  her 
because  he  was  the  stronger. 

They  had  no  love  for  one  another,  and  there 
was  no  deception  between  them  on  that 
point ;  but  they  did  not  know  how  to  earn  a 
living  if  they  should  separate. 

All  the  care,  the  trouble,  all  the  patience 
for  which  beloved  wives  and  mothers  are 
repaid  by  the  loving  gratitude  and  tenderness 
of  husbands  or  children,  Donatienne  gave 
without  hope  of  affectionate  thanks,  without 


A   LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE       197 

a  hope  for  the  future,  without  the  inward 
peace  she  had  never  been  able  to  attain. 

She  had  endeavoured  to  gain  that  peace, 
or  at  least  a  blank  silence  of  soul;  she  had 
struggled  to  drive  away  all  thoughts  of 
religion,  and  to  fight  against  those  reproaches 
of  the  conscience  which,  like  the  shoots  of  a 
root  cut  level  with  the  light,  grow  feebler  and 
feebler  at  each  new  birth. 

In  her  daily  life,  always  full  of  work  and 
amusement,  she  found  a  way  to  put  aside  the 
importunate  vision  of  the  past;  it  was  only 
at  moments  that  irresistible  yearnings  of 
mother  love  seized  and  crushed  her,  leaving 
her  powerless  to  shake  off  the  memory  of  all 
the  rest — the  things  and  the  people  she  had 
believed  forgotten. 

At  such  moments,  to  divert  her  thoughts, 
she  would  gossip  with  the  customers,  or  play 
cards  with  them,  or  even  trust  a  neighbour  to 
look  after  the  cafe,  and  go  out,  by  herself  or 
with  her  lover,  into  the  streets  of  Paris  and 
join  the  crowds  there. 

One  of  the  arguments  that  served  her 
purpose  at  such  times  to  fight  against  the 
upheaval  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  was  the 


198  THE   PENITENT 

utter  impossibility  of  her  taking  up   again 
any   of    the   duties   she   had   relinquished— 
the  impossibility  even  of  finding  out  if   her 
husband  and  children  were  still  alive. 

Might  they  not  have  succumbed,  father  or 
children — perhaps  all — under  the  wretched- 
ness of  the  tramp's  life,  poverty  even  worse 
than  the  first !  Seven  years  without  news- 
seven  years  ! 

And  now,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  was  told 
that  a  Joel — a  child  of  about  the  same  age 
as  hers,  and  who  came  from  Brittany — had 
been  seen  in  la  Creuse,  and  she  could  not 
discover  if  it  were  her  child  or  not. 

But  it  was  enough  to  break  her  truce  with 
herself;  and  the  thought  of  those  she  had 
forsaken,  hitherto  kept  in  abeyance,  once 
more  took  possession  of  her  mind,  inspired 
by  the  name  of  Joel.  The  doubts,  the  dis- 
quiet, the  accusations  to  which  Donatienne 
could  find  no  reply — all  came  back  to  her. 

"I'm  tormenting  myself  for  nothing,"  she 
thought  as  she  walked  on  quickly  through  the 
fog,  "  just  for  nothing  at  all !  Is  it  likely 
that  my  child  was  the  only  one  in  Brittany 
of  that  name  ?  And  since  the  mason  saw 


A   LA   PETITE   DONATIENNE      199 

two  boys  and  one  girl  in  the  little  field  with 
poplars  round  it,  it  can't  be  the  same.  No, 
they  can't  be  my  children.  Besides,  their 
father — if  he's  like  what  he  used  to  be  when 
I  knew  him — would  have  died  of  the  sorrow 
I  caused  him — my  man  must  have  died 

The  tradespeople  whose  shops  she  passed, 
thought  she  looked  as  if  she  were  dreaming, 
and  she  did  not  stop  to  talk  to  them. 

"  Madame  Donatienne  has  got  something 
on  her  mind,"  said  the  baker's  wife,  the  green- 
grocer and  the  wife  of  the  confectioner — a  real 
lady,  with  a  daughter  Donatienne  always 
looked  at  for  the  sake  of  her  soft  eyes  full  of 
compassion  for  an  unknown  life. 

But  who  could  guess  at  the  cause  of  her 
trouble  ?  No  one  did  guess. 

When  would  that  stone-mason  come  back  ? 
Not  for  four  months.  Some  of  the  details 
he  had  given  her  seemed  strangely  near  the 
truth,  if  others  seemed  doubtful. 

Donatienne  stayed  out-of-doors  longer  than 
usual;  when  she  got  back,  the  cafe  was  half 
full,  and  Bastien  Laray  was  sitting  in  the 
sort  of  glazed  pulpit,  where  she  herself  sat  in 
the  afternoon. 


200  THE   PENITENT 

He  gave  her  an  amiable  smile — a  rare 
event — and  calling  her  in  a  low  voice  with 
the  wink  which  made  the  people  about  say  : 
'  That's  a  happy  household  !  "  he  asked  : 

"  You  didn't  think  you'd  been  out  only  a 
short  time,  did  you  ?  Plenty  of  customers 
have  come  in,  and  I've  served  them  for  you. 
Are  you  the  better  for  your  walk  ?  No  ! 
Are  you  angry  with  me  still  ?  Shall  we  go 
to  the  theatre  to-night  ?  " 

The  sound  of  a  sou  struck  upon  marble 
interrupted  his  apology,  and  Bastien  Laray, 
as  if  that  meant  an  order,  said  out  loud : 
"  Give  us  your  three  sous,"  and  got  down  to 
take  the  price  of  a  glass  of  beer. 

The  woman  mounted  the  two  steps  to  the 
raised  seat,  the  customers  who  knew  her 
gazing  at  her,  the  others,  too,  casting  a  look 
at  her. 

The  day  dragged  on,  ending  in  fog ;  outside 
the  horses  slipped  as  if  on  snow;  the  smoke, 
beaten  down  by  the  wind,  thinned  but  still 
seen  to  be  smoke,  dipped  in  eddies  as  low  as 
the  windows,  and  it  was  at  that  that  Dona- 
tienne  gazed  when  she  lifted  her  head  from  the 
ledger. 


A   LA    PETITE   DONATIENNE      201 

And  she  kept  saying  to  herself :  "  That 
was  what  I  ought  to  have  said  to  that  la 
Creuse  mason  when  he  was  here  this  morning. 
I  ought  to  have  asked  him  a  lot  more  ques- 
tions; and  now  I  don't  know  where  to  find 
him."  And  her  heart  was  torn  with  anguish. 

Why  hadn't  she  insisted  on  being  told  the 
name  of  the  village  where  that  Joel  lived,  or 
some  other  village  near  ?  She  could  have 
written  to  the  children;  but  the  shock,  the 
emotion,  the  swift  disillusionment,  had  pre- 
vented her  doing  the  right  thing. 

But  no; — could  she  have  written  to  the 
children  ?  What  could  she  have  said — what 
excuse  could  she  have  made  for  forsaking 
them  ?  And  if  they  were  still  alive,  if  those 
were  really  Noemi  and  Joel,  wouldn't  they  be 
tempted,  or  perhaps  ordered,  to  answer  her 
harshly  as  an  unworthy  mother  ? 

Oh,  no  !  no  letters.  Depend  upon  it,  that 
would  happen.  But  she  must  wait — many 
months,  and  even  then,  after  all  the  anguish 
of  suspense,  what  might  she  hear  ?  Very 
likely  nothing  at  all.  Perhaps  that  man  was 
an  impostor,  a  humbug  sent  by  somebody 
who  knew  she  had  been  married  and  wanted 


202  THE   PENITENT 

to  make  her  own  to  the  sinfulness  of  her 
present  life.  Still,  he  had  looked  simple 
enough — he  had  not  once  laughed ;  he  seemed 
to  be  an  honest  fellow,  too,  save  for  the 
audacity  all  men  show  to  women  like  her,  still 
pretty  and  moderately  young.  Unspeakably 
weary  at  last,  she  said  to  herself  :  "I  should 
like  it  to  be  true,  even  if  I  should  be  deprived 
of  them  for  ever.  I  should  like  to  know  that 
they  are  alive,  and  beautiful,  and  where  they 
are " 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    THEATRE 


CHAPTER   X 

THE   THEATRE 

THAT  evening,  after  dinner  in  the  back-shop, 
she  dressed  herself,  and,  despite  the  weari- 
ness of  her  expression,  she  looked  well  in 
her  hat  with  its  pink  and  black  feathers,  and 
the  grey  fur  round  her  neck ;  she  walked  well, 
and  her  small  work-worn  and  discoloured 
hands  were  hidden  by  her  gloves. 

The  man  hurried  her  along,  and  the  women 
living  near,  who,  like  their  sisters  in  the 
country,  lost  nothing  that  happened  in  the 
street,  said  to  one  another  :  "  There  they  go 
again — to  the  theatre,  I  bet.  They  must 
earn  a  lot ;  but  it's  her  that  makes  him  spend 
his  money  that  way;  she  cares  for  nothing 
but  amusement." 

With  an  imitation  diamond  pin  in  his 
necktie,  his  chest  bulging  out  his  coat,  and 
his  air  of  insolent  conquest,  Bastien  Laray 

walked  beside  Donatienne. 

205 


206  THE   PENITENT 

He  was  trying  to  do  away  with  the  disas- 
trous effect  of  the  morning's  brutality;  for 
he  had  clearly  recognized  that  what  Dona- 
tienne  had  said  in  a  moment  of  anger  was 
true — she  could  leave  him  without  need  for 
any  excuse. 

They  took  the  train  and  quickly  found 
themselves  on  the  Boulevards ;  it  was  nearly 
nine  o'clock. 

When  they  entered  the  brightly-lighted 
theatre  the  play  had  already  begun.  People 
were  laughing  as  they  listened,  every  face 
expressing  the  same  sentiment  as  all  the 
others.  Several  people  had  to  get  up  to 
allow  Donatienne  and  her  lover  to  get  to 
their  seats  near  the  middle  of  the  front  row 
of  the  gallery. 

As  for  him  he  was  already  absorbed  in  the 
performance,  and  she  longed  to  feel  the  same 
so  that  she  might  escape  the  obsession  of  the 
thoughts  that  had  held  her  since  the  morning. 

She  loved  the  theatre,  and  had  spent  a 
great  part  of  her  wages  when  she  was  in 
service  to  "  get  a  good  laugh,"  as  she  called 
it,  and  the  self-possessed  manner  in  which 
she  passed  on  first,  with  lifted  head  and 


THE   THEATRE  207 

whispers  of  "  Pardon " ;  the  gesture  with 
which  she  drew  her  skirt  aside  as  she  took 
her  seat,  and,  before  looking  at  the  actors, 
gazed  through  her  opera-glass  at  the  audience, 
testified  to  a  long-established  habit  of  fre- 
quenting such  entertainments. 

Presently  she  rested  her  elbows  on  the 
red  velvet  of  the  balustrade  and  tried  to 
give  her  mind  to  the  distant  stage,  whence 
rose  speeches  that  should  have  made  her 
laugh;  but  she  felt  as  if  she  heard  nothing 
but  a  confusion  of  senseless  words,  vague 
sounds  which  made  no  impression  on  her, 
while  others  words,  unspoken,  and  unknown 
of  all  but  herself,  seemed,  with  the  sound  of 
waves,  to  break  upon  her  inward  hearing  : 
"  Noemi  !  Lucienne  !  Joel !  " 

She  could  no  more  refuse  to  listen  to  them — 
those  words  in  which  was  told  the  whole 
drama  of  her  life — than  she  could  have 
stopped  the  flow  of  a  spring  of  water  with 
her  hand. 

The  play  could  not  deliver  her  from  herself ; 
she  looked  at  the  orchestra,  the  boxes,  the 
women's  dresses ;  but  the  anguish  of  her  heart 
knew  no  alleviation;  on  the  contrary,  it  did 


208  THE   PENITENT 

but  increase  by  contrast  with  the  scene  and 
the  crowd  around  her. 

Feeling  that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
she  leant  towards  her  lover,  intending  to  say, 
"  Take  me  out  !  "  when  before  opening  her 
lips,  in  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  Bastien 
Laray,  she  caught  sight  of  a  woman,  like 
herself  of  the  lower  classes,  a  fresh-cheeked 
young  woman,  who  had  brought  her  child,  a 
baby  of  two  years  old  or  so,  and  was  cuddling 
him  against  her — her  breast  to  his. 

The  little  fair  sleeping  head  lay  upon  his 
mother's  shoulder,  and  his  little  body  rose  and 
fell  with  his  regular  breathings,  and  at  times, 
as  if  in  a  dream,  heaved  and  then  subsided. 

The  woman  was  sitting  close  to  the  balus- 
trade, and  was  apparently  entirely  absorbed 
in  the  play  itself,  and  Donatienne  thought: 
"  Suppose  she  were  to  let  go  of  the  child  ! 
Suppose  she  even  loosed  her  arm  from  him, 
he  might  fall  over  and  be  killed.  How  pretty 
he  is,  the  innocent  little  creature  !  " 

And  she  gazed  at  him  so  long  that  at  last 
the  mother  noticed  it,  and  they  exchanged  a 
look  of  understanding,  each  recognizing  the 
motherhood  of  the  other. 


THE   THEATRE  209 

Donatienne  gave  only  a  sad  smile;  but 
presently  she  began  to  think  that  if  she 
might  take  the  child  on  her  knee  it  would  be 
a  solace  to  her  heart;  but  she  dared  not 
say  so. 

The  other  woman,  once  more  engrossed  in 
the  play,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stage ; 
but  Donatienne  remained  still  half-turned 
towards  the  child,  feeling  herself  grow  pale 
as  if  her  very  life  were  being  drained  away. 

The  theatre,  the  play,  the  laughter — how 
far  away  it  all  was  !  The  man  beside  her 
listening  to  the  farce,  ignorant  of  what  was 
going  on  so  near  him,  seemed  an  utter  stranger 
to  her ;  and  how  utter  a  stranger  he  really 
was  ! 

What  she  was  really  looking  at  were  the 
last  pictures  left  her  by  the  old  household 
life,  pictures  she  htid  been  thrusting  away  for 
many  years,  but  to-night  bitterly  triumphant 
and  ravaging  her  soul. 

She  saw  the  house  at  Ros  Grignon  on  its 
stony  hillock,  the  field  of  buckwheat  and  the 
field  of  rye  forming  two  lighter  strips  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and,  beyond  them,  the  waste 
land  and  the  Forest  with  the  wind  singing 


210  THE   PENITENT 

through  it;  she  saw  the  room  with  the  bed 
and  the  cradles,  and  the  door  opening  into 
the  stable;  and  she  saw  the  three  children 
pressing  round  her  when  she  came  in  from 
the  fields. 

"  Oh,  my  darlings  !  where  are  you  ?  Is 
it  true  you  are  still  alive  ?  " 

Everything  had  been  sold ;  yes,  and  others 
now  tilled  the  poor  fields  where  Louarn  had 
laboured.  It  was  all  done  with,  and  Dona- 
tienne  felt  no  wish  to  go  back  to  that  old 
life ;  but  as  she  sat  high  up  in  this  theatre- 
fool  that  she  wras — more  strongly  than  ever 
it  came  to  her  that  by  separating  herself 
from  her  children  she  had  relinquished  an 
immense,  a  durable,  happiness,  which  of  old 
she  had  been  too  young  and  too  frivolous  to 
understand.  Now-a-days  she  could  not  have 
resisted  the  little  hands,  the  arms,  the  eyes, 
the  lips,  of  the  three  beloved  creatures  she 
had  once  known  around  her. 

"  Oh,  children !  children !  How  can 
mothers  ever  leave  you,  except  by  death  ? 
What  madness  made  me  take  service  in 
Paris  ?  What  madness  made  me  stay  there, 
when  I  was  free  to  go  back  ?  I  want  the 


THE   THEATRE  211 

loving  touch  of  your  hands,  and  the  weight 
of  your  bodies  on  my  knees.  Oh,  how 
wretched  I  am  !  " 

And  indeed  so  evident  was  it  that  she  was 
suffering,  that  Bastien  Laray  turned  round, 
his  heavy  face  beaming  with  enjoyment,  and 
said  : 

'  You're  not  laughing,  Donatienne  ?  " 

"  No." 

'  You're  not  taking  it  in  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  didn't  pay  for  your  seat  for  you  to  give 
yourself  such  airs.  What  more  do  you 
want  ?  " 

The  woman  next  him,  hearing  the  taunt, 
looked  at  Donatienne,  while  she  rocked  the 
child  slowly  and  fondly  on  her  soft  young 
bosom.  Then  she  saw  the  gloved  hands  put 
half-out  towards  her,  timidly,  doubtfully, 
and  heard  a  voice  say : 

"  Madame,  would  you  let  me  hold  him  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  ?  " 

"  It  would  do  me  good ;  I've  none  left 
myself,  now." 

She  looked  so  pale  that  the  woman  knew 
she  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  pitied  her. 


o  2 


212  THE   PENITENT 

"  What  a  fool  you  are,  Donatienne  !  "  said 
her  lover. 

But  the  woman  had  gently  lifted  the 
child,  and  behind  the  back  of  the  protesting 
man,  to  the  delight  of  the  women  around  and 
the  disgust  of  the  men,  saying  :  "  Keep  quiet, 
you  women  there  !  "  she  held  it  out  to  Dona- 
tienne, not  without  a  shade  of  alarm,  never- 
theless. And,  when  she  had  given  up  the 
blue  and  white  frock,  in  her  turn  she  was  not 
quite  equal  to  looking  at  or  listening  to  the 
play,  and  she  felt  a  little  sorry. 

She  kept  on  smiling  politely,  but  her  eyes 
wandered  often  towards  Donatienne,  who 
had  laid  the  baby  on  her  knees,  and,  her  arms 
around  him  in  motherly  fashion,  was  sitting 
motionless,  bent  over  him  like  a  cradle  and 
watching  him  as  he  slept. 

A  shuddering  she  could  not  still  seized  her ; 
but  it  came  not  of  pleasure,  as  she  had  hoped 
for,  but  of  grief  and  remorse  even  deeper. 

The  play  was  ending;  the  curtain  fell. 

"  Enough  of  that  nonsense  !  "  said  the  man ; 
"  give  up  that  brat,  and  let's  go." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  lifted  the  warm 
little  body  to  her  lips,  hesitated  a  moment  as 


THE   THEATRE  218 

if  she  were  ashamed  and  felt  herself  un- 
worthy, then  quickly  kissed  the  pink  cheek, 
which  puckered  under  the  kiss.  "  Thank 
you,"  she  said,  as  she  gave  the  child  back  to 
its  mother;  and  she  went  out  with  Bastien 
Laray. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  they  got  back 
to  the  little  flat  over  the  cafe.  The  man, 
tired  and  cross,  went  to  bed  in  almost  com- 
plete silence.  Donatienne  undressed  slowly, 
dawdling  about  the  room  so  as  to  lengthen 
the  time;  she  longed  to-night  to  stretch 
herself  on  the  floor  or  in  an  armchair. 

When  she  saw  that  Bastien  was  asleep, 
she  sought  her  bed;  and  in  the  night  she 

wept. 

***** 

A  bitter  grief  had  come  into  Donatienne' s 
life;  but  no  great  change  followed  it,  and 
it  even  lessened,  like  the  rest,  as  the  weeks 
went  by.  No  one  knew  her  secret,  and  she 
strove  to  fight  against  the  fancies  that  assailed 
her,  and  to  assure  herself  that  there  would 
be  no  return  of  that  messenger  who  had 
upset  her  so  terribly. 

The  winter  passed,  and  March  began  to 


214  THE   PENITENT 

scatter  the  wintry  clouds.  Every  morning, 
as  she  took  down  the  shutters  of  the  shop- 
front,  Donatienne  looked  out  for  the  man 
who  had  promised  to  return. 

He  was  never  there,  and  in  spite  of  herself, 
she  felt  deceived.  As  she  lighted  the  fire 
and  put  the  coffee  on  to  boil,  her  thoughts 
turned  invincibly  to  those  she  had  forsaken; 
and  what  filled  her  with  the  most  piercing 
sadness  was  that  she  could  form  no  picture 
of  them  as  they  must  now  be — those  children 
she  herself  had  borne.  They  never  looked 
at  her;  they  never  smiled;  they  were  voice- 
less. What  would  they  have  called  her  ? 
How  tall  were  they  ?  What  clothes  did  they 
wear  ? 

So  she  tortured  herself  till  the  first  customers 
appeared  to  save  her  from  the  anguish  of 
her  soul. 

And  the  days  of  March  dragged  on. 


CHAPTER    XI 
THE    PASSER-BY 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE   PASSER-BY 

FAR  away  from  Paris,  and  still  farther  from 
Brittany,  there  was  a  plain,  broken  by  hills 
and  vales.  On  its  northern  side  a  high 
plateau  went  down  almost  perpendicularly 
into  the  valley  and  closed  it.  To  the  east  and 
west,  lower  hills  rose  up,  hemming  in  the 
enclosed  plain,  green  in  springtime  and  the 
colour  of  dry  withies  when  summer  had  gone. 

Its  vast  extent  could  be  seen  by  the  slow 
passage  of  the  clouds  the  wind  blew  over  it, 
when  it  was  not  blowing  a  gale  it  took  them 
half  a  day  to  disappear.  The  herdsmen, 
accustomed  to  watch  them,  had  the  eyes  of 
dreamers;  they  drove  their  flocks  of  sheep 
or  pigs  across  the  moorland  of  the  plateau, 
where  shallow  ponds  shimmered  amongst 
the  heather  and  rye. 

In  the  plain  the  villages  were  distant  from 

each  other;    when  it  was  fine  you  caught 

217 


218  THE   PENITENT 

sight  of  them  from  afar;  not  because  of 
their  spires,  for  all  the  churches  had  little 
square  towers ;  but  because  of  their  red-tiled 
roofs. 

The  very  centre  of  France,  a  region  so 
far,  far  inland,  110  sea-breeze,  no  mountain- 
air  could  reach  it  with  unbroken  wings;  a 
region  where  the  summer  heat  burned  up  the 
still  milky  wheat  and  often  dried  up  the  fruit 
while  still  green. 

Not  far  from  the  entrance  of  this  plain,  the 
road,  which  had  sloped,  rose,  and  then  again 
sloped  downwards,  and,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
second  slope  ran  past  a  poor-looking  house- 
two  rooms  under  a  roof  of  ancient  tiles, 
cracked  and  loose  and  covered  with  a  thick 
mat  of  dust  and  dead  leaves,  varying  in 
appearance  with  the  seasons. 

Inside  the  enclosure  there  were  some 
cabbage  and  carrot  beds,  a  pond,  a  little 
farther  on  a  well,  and  some  narrow  borders 
sown  with  stocks. 

All  round  this  diminutive  domain,  shaped 
corner-wise,  writhed  a  thick  quickset  hedge, 
clasping  the  trunks  of  some  poplars  cut  down 
to  within  eight  yards  or  so  of  the  ground  to 
be  used  as  firewood,  and  that  was  all.  Out 


THE   PASSER-BY  219 

beyond,    the   land   was   broadly   striped   by 
meadows  and  fields  of  wheat  and  clover. 

There  was  no  other  building  near;  but  a 
road  of  moderate  width,  branching  off  at  the 
angle  of  the  hedge,  led  to  the  village  you 
could  make  out  amidst  the  trees  of  the 
orchards,  half  a  mile  or  so  away. 

On  the  twentieth  of  March  the  day  was 
cold;  the  wind  blew  off  the  purple  plateau, 
carrying  with  it  over  the  plain  a  heavy 
canopy  of  cloud  seemingly  endless.  For 
more  than  a  week  the  clouds  had  drifted 
southwards  with  only  an  occasional  break 
whence  fell  a  shower  of  rays  lighting  up  a 
corner  of  the  landscape  and  bringing  out  its 
smallest  details — a  flock  of  sheep,  a  moving 
carriage,  the  forms  of  the  banks  and  ditches, 
the  gilt  cock  on  a  church  or  a  weathercock. 

By  the  tender  green  of  the  meadows  and 
the  clumps  of  trees,  it  could  be  seen  then  that 
the  spring  had  begun  and  that  there  were 
buds  upon  the  branches.  Neither  the  wind 
nor  the  sky  would  have  proclaimed  it;  and, 
in  the  humble  garden  at  the  road-side,  the 
whistling  wind  flapped  about  the  linen  a 
young  girl  was  hanging  out. 

She  had  been  washing  it  in  the  pond  at 


220  THE   PENITENT 

the  end  of  the  garden  farthest  from  the  road ; 
the  floating  soap-suds  were  spreading  all  over 
the  surface  of  the  water;  and  now,  having 
put  it  into  a  wheelbarrow,  she  was  taking 
it  out,  piece  by  piece — shirts,  handkerchiefs, 
children's  drawers,  and  dishcloths — spreading 
it  out,  and  fastening  it  with  wooden  pegs  upon 
a  line  stretched  in  front  of  the  house  along 
the  rows  of  cabbages  as  far  as  the  high-road. 

The  inflated  shirts  beat  the  air  with  their 
sleeves ;  the  squares  of  linen  crumpled  them- 
selves up,  and  twisted  about,  flapping  noisily. 

The  girl  went  on  with  her  work,  which  she 
had  begun  at  the  end  of  the  line  nearest  the 
house,  with  grave  attention. 

She  was  not  tall,  but  slender  and  well 
made,  and  unmistakably  more  refined  than 
the  ordinary  peasant-woman. 

At  this  particular  moment,  some  one  was 
considering  her  attentively,  though  she  did 
not  see  him — a  man  dressed  like  a  workman 
in  an  ill-fitting  suit  of  dark,  coarse,  striped 
cloth,  with  a  shabby  bowler  hat  on  his  head, 
and  carrying  at  the  end  of  a  stick  over  his 
shoulder  a  voluminous  bundle  tied  up  in  a 
white  smock. 

He  had  come  up  from  the  end  of  the  plain 


THE   PASSER-BY  221 

and  his  big  shoes  of  unpolished  leather  were 
covered  with  mud. 

He  had  been  walking  against  the  wind 
and  its  sharp  sting  had  reddened  his  face  and 
made  his  eyes  water. 

A  little  way  from  the  garden  he  had  caught 
sight  of  the  girl,  and,  slackening  his  pace, 
he  approached  slowly,  with  frequent  pauses 
as  if  to  recover  his  breath ;  like  a  very  weary 
man.  In  fact  he  was  somewhat  weary;  but 
what  he  wanted  especially  was  to  take  note 
of  this  house,  this  garden,  and  the  people  he 
might  find  there;  and  he  was  anxious  that 
the  young  linen-hanger  should  not  see  him 
too  soon. 

But  she  was  absorbed  in  her  work;  going 
backwards  and  forwards,  stooping  and  rising, 
which  prevented  the  passer-by  from  seeing 
her  face,  now  turned  away,  now  concealed 
behind  a  piece  of  linen  or  by  her  arms  as  they 
held  it  up. 

She  wore  a  short  skirt  which  displayed  a 
pair  of  sabots,  and  on  her  slim  legs  stockings 
that  ought  to  have  been  red  but  which  were 
of  a  sort  of  faded  pink  and  much  darned. 

Her  skirt  and  bodice  were  black,  and  over 
them  she  wore  a  blue  cotton  apron  that  she 


222  THE   PENITENT 

had  put  on  to  do  her  washing  and  had  not 
taken  off,  though  it  was  very  wet  and  crumpled 
into  a  heap. 

When  the  man  was  within  fifteen  paces  of 
her,  he  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  hedge 
that  enclosed  the  garden,  and  his  placid 
face  showed  signs  of  strong  feeling,  which 
pulled  at  the  corners  of  his  heavy,  cracked 
lips. 

He  recognized  the  girl  he  had  seen,  then 
seated  and  a  little  way  off,  a  year  earlier,  as 
she  approached  the  hedge — and  consequently 
the  road.  Her  features  were  as  delicate  as 
her  body,  with  dark  eyes  under  long  lashes, 
a  very  small  mouth  like  Donatienne's ;  a  pale 
complexion,  a  pointed  chin,  and  an  expression 
both  sad  and  shy. 

The  wind  blew  her  skirt  about,  and  some 
locks  of  her  hair,  but  the  mass  of  this — of  the 
colour  of  roasted  chestnuts — was  done  up 
in  a  small  coil  at  the  top  of  her  head. 

She  would  have  looked  a  town-girl,  but 
for  her  poverty-stricken  garments.  Nothing 
else  was  stirring  in  the  small  enclosure ; — yes, 
a  little  boy  of  five  or  six,  over  there  in  the 
doorway  of  the  house. 

The    mason    remembered    his    promise    to 


THE   PASSER-BY  223 

speak  to  these  people  on  his  way  back  and 
to  bring  news  of  them.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  catch  the  train  to  Paris,  above  on  the 
plateau. 

He  was  only  a  few  yards  away  from  the 
girl,  who  was  now  hanging  up  a  big  checked- 
cotton  shirt  which  the  cold  breeze  instantly 
caught  and  inflated. 

The  man  coughed  to  attract  her  attention, 
and  the  girl  shivered  and  started  backwards, 
still  holding  one  of  the  wooden  clothes-pegs 
which  she  had  been  about  to  fix  on  the  line, 
and  looking  over  the  hedge,  discovered  the 
wayfarer  who  had  laid  down  his  bundle  of 
clothes  at  the  edge  of  the  ditch  and  was 
wiping  his  face  with  the  back  of  his  sleeve. 

He  did  not  look  a  bad  man  and  she  was 
on  her  own  side  of  the  hedge,  so  she  stayed 
where  she  was. 

*  Would  it  be  possible  to  give  me  a  glass 
of  wine  here,  my  dear  !  "  he  said,  in  as  gentle 
a  voice  as  he  could  manage. 

That  seemed  a  happy  idea;  but  she 
answered : 

'  We've  got  nothing  but  water." 

"  Well,   a  glass  of  water.     I'm  thirsty." 

Before    answering,    she    looked    again    to 


224  THE   PENITENT 

convince  herself  that  he  was  not  a  dangerous 
tramp,  and  then  glanced  towards  the  village. 

"  I'll  get  you  one." 

In  a  moment  she  had  run  to  the  house, 
drawn  the  water  and  come  back  again, 
holding  the  full  glass  at  arm's  length,  the 
shaken  water  sending  up  sparkles  of  blue. 

"It's  good  fresh  water,"  she  said,  "  you 
just  see." 

He  raised  his  hat,  drank  off  the  water  at  a 
draught,  shook  the  drops  from  the  glass  and 
handed  it  back  over  the  hedge. 

"  Thank  you,  Mademoiselle  Noemi,"  he 
said. 

She  took  the  glass,  and  then  stood  motion- 
less in  an  astonishment  that  grew  greater  and 
greater,  and  the  serious  expression  of  her 
young  face  turned  to  one  of  anxiety  if  not 
hostility. 

"  I  am  not  called  Mademoiselle,  but  my 
name  is  Noemi.  How  did  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  last  year  when  I  went  by  on 
my  way  to  Paris  for  my  time  there.  Don't 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  One  of  my  mates  pointed  out  the  house 
to  me;  he  said  the  people  that  live  there 


THE   PASSER-BY  225 

don't  belong  to  this  part  of  the  country — 
they  come  from  a  long  way  off — and  that  there 
was  a  boy  called  Joel.  Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  that  him  down  there  ?  " 

"  No,  that's  Baptiste;  Joel  is  with  father 
at  the  quarry." 

"  How  many  are  there  of  you  ?  " 

"  Four." 

"  So  much  the  worse." 

"  What  can  it  matter  to  you  ?  "  she  asked, 
reassured,  she  knew  not  why,  and  she  gave 
a  youthful  laugh. 

"  I'm  out  of  my  reckoning,"  the  man  said 
as  if  to  himself  as  he  shook  his  head ;  "so 
much  the  worse." 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  setting  to  work 
again,  "you'd  better  be  getting  on  now; 
I've  got  all  my  washing  to  hang  out,  and  if 
I'm  caught  idling  I  shall  catch  it." 

A  sense  of  personal  disappointment  had 
come  over  the  mason  when  she  had  given 
four  as  the  number  of  the  children. 

So  this  was  what  he  would  have  to  report 
to  la  Patronne — the  eager,  pretty,  motherly 
mistress  of  the  cafe  at  Levallois  ! 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  her  crying  and 


226  THE   PENITENT 

saying  :  "  Why  did  you  come  ?  Before  I 
saw  you  I  had  no  hope,  and  now  you've 
taken  it  away  from  me  again  !  " 

His  was  a  simple  heart,  easily  touched. 
Again  he  gazed  at  the  girl,  who  was  still 
looking  rather  suspiciously  at  him  as  she 
spread  the  rest  of  the  linen  over  the  cabbages, 
there  being  no  more  space  on  the  line;  and 
the  resemblance  between  her  face  and  that 
other  as  he  recalled  it  was  so  strong,  that  he 
let  the  stick  and  the  bundle  he  had  stooped 
to  pick  up  lie  where  they  were. 

"  You  mustn't  be  angry,  little  Noemi, 
and  suppose  I'm  one  of  those  tramps  that 
talk  over  hedges  to  everybody  they  see,  and 
haven't  much  good  to  tell  about  their  lives. 
I'm  a  native  of  this  part  of  the  country — I  come 
from  Gentioux,  and  every  one  there  knows  I 
come  of  decent  people.  If  I  spoke  to  you— 
come  back  here,  and  let  me  tell  you  about  it." 

She  came  a  little  nearer,  still  holding  a 
square  of  linen  in  her  hands. 

"  It  was  because  I  saw  in  Paris  some  one 
who  I  feel  sure  is  a  relation  of  yours — 


"  I  didn't  know  I  had  any,"  said  Noemi; 
"  is  it  a  man  ?  }! 

'   "No." 


THE   PASSER-BY  227 

She  had  raised  herself  on  her  sabots  to  get 
a  better  view  of  the  traveller;  her  lips  were 
parted  and  her  nostrils  white  with  emotion. 

The  man  said  to  himself :  "  She  knows 
something  !  "  and  he  saw  that  the  cloth 
had  dropped  from  her  hands. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  close  to 
him,  the  girl  said  in  a  voice  of  impassioned 
entreaty : 

"  Is  she  alive,  then  ?  " 

"  Come,"  said  the  man,  who  saw  that  the 
girl  was  in  the  grip  of  either  grief  or  joy; 
"  come,  before  I  tell  you  about  it,  there  are 
several  things  I  must  know.  Don't  go  on 
like  that — your  hands  needn't  tremble; — 
you  said  four  children,  didn't  you  ?  " 

*  Yes ;  there's  Baptiste,  the  youngest,  and 
then  going  up,  Joel,  Lucienne,  and  me. 
That  makes  four." 

"  One  more  than  I  was  told  of.  You  came 
from  Brittany  ?  " 

'  Yes ;  I  was  more  than  five  years  old.  I 
can  remember  it.  I  walked,  the  others  rode 
in  the  hand-cart." 

"  Your  mother  lives  here  with  you  ?  " 

The  girl  knitted  her  brow,  hesitating  to 
reveal  what  she  kept  hidden  in  the  depths 


P  2 


228  THE   PENITENT 

of  her  own  heart.  Once  more  she  looked  te 
assure  herself  that  the  traveller's  face  showed 
real  feeling,  that  before  her  stood  a  really 
good  man;  then  she  bent  forward,  and 
speaking  fast — woman  and  child  in  one — she 
said  : 

"  There  is  Baptiste's  mother,  Monsieur ; 
but  she's  not  my  mother.  It  seems  mine 
allowed  our  place  in  Brittany  to  be  sold  and 
would  not  come  back.  She  went  away  to 
nurse  the  child  of  some  rich  people,  and  she's 
never  been  seen  again." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?  " 

"  Donatienne." 

"  Then  Pve  seen  her  !  "  said  the  man. 

"  Oh !  what  are  you  saying  ?  You've 
seen  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I've  even  spoken  to  her." 

She  began  to  cry  silently,  with  lifted  eyes, 
from  which  the  tears  fell  as  she  looked  over 
the  man's  head  towards  the  tree-tops  as  if 
there  she  beheld  the  vision  of  her  who  had 
been  called  Donatienne.  Then  her  eyelids 
fell  and  she  fell  a-sobbing,  still  smiling  at  that 
same  vision. 

"  Tell  me  if  she  spoke  of  me,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Of  you  all." 


THE   PASSER-BY  229 

'  Then  she  hasn't  forgotten  us  as  they  say  ? 
I  knew  she  hadn't — I  felt  sure  of  it — I  loved 
her  so.  Is  she  old  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all — a  beautiful  woman  still," 
and  he  thought  to  himself  :  "as  you  will  be; 
she's  young  again  in  you." 

But  all  he  said  was  : 

'  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  When  I 
told  her  that  there  was  a  Joel  in  this  part 
of  the  world,  she  wanted  to  hear  all  about  it. 
I  told  her  everything  I  knew  and  then  she 
cried  out :  '  I  am  their  mother  ! '  Perhaps 
it  wouldn't  take  much — if  she  got  leave — to 
make  her  give  up  everything  in  Paris  and 
come  back " 

"  Oh,  no — no  !  "  cried  the  girl  in  alarm; 
"  don't  let  her  come  ?  Only  give  her  my 
love.  Tell  her  I've  seen  her  in  my  dreams; 
tell  her  I  say  her  name  in  my  prayers;1 — the 
others  are  too  young,  aren't  they  ?  But 
don't  let  her  come  back  !  I  should  love  her 
to  come,  but  the  others  don't  want  her  !  " 

"  Who  ?  " 

And  she  answered  with  all  Donatienne's 
own  tragic  ardour : 

"  My  father,  and  the  other.  When  they 
talk  about  her  they  want  her  to  die,  or  they 


230  THE   PENITENT 

say  they  feel  sure  she's  dead,  and  they  both 
go  on  saying  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things 
about  her ;  and  because  I  won't  call  the  other 
*  Maman '  they  have  rows  with  me  and  she 
would  like  to  beat  me  if  she  could.  Oh  ! 
they're  not  always  kind  to  me,  you  can  tell 
Maman  Donatienne.  Oh,  Monsieur  !  now  I 
shall  think  of  nothing  but  her — but  I  won't 
say  that  I  know  she  is  alive — no,  I  promise 
you  I  won't.  Tell  me  where  she  lives." 

He  wrote  the  address  in  a  limp,  worn  note- 
book fastened  with  an  elastic  band,  tore  out 
the  page  and  gave  it  to  the  girl. 

Noemi  glanced  again  in  the  direction  of  the 
village,  and  said  : 

"  She's  coming  back — Baptiste's  mother  ! 
There  she  is.  You  can't  see  her,  but  I  know 
the  road  and  I  know  it's  her.  She  went 
with  Lucienne  to  buy  coals  in  the  town. 
Don't  stay;  when  she  sets  father  on,  he  can 
be  rough.  He'll  be  coming  back  from  the 
quarry  soon,  too.  Go  on,  or  I  may  get  a 
beating — and  you,  too,  perhaps." 

"  Oh,  me  !  "  said  the  man;    "  no  fear  !  " 

He  pointed  to  the  stick  on  the  ground, 
stooped,  slung  the  bundle  of  clothes  on  to  his 
back,  and  raising  his  hat,  said  : 


THE   PASSER-BY  231 

"  Then  I  may  say  I  saw  Noemi,  mayn't  I  ?  " 

The  poor  child  was  so  moved  that  the  fast- 
coming  tears  choked  her  and  she  could  only 
make  a  gesture  of  assent.  Then  she  pointed 
out  the  road  to  the  town,  and  feeling  herself 
to  blame,  stooped  to  finish  spreading  out  the 
washing. 

The  mason  walked  on,  and  now  she  turned 
round  to  watch  him  mount  the  hill  on  whose 
summit  were  the  limestone  rocks  and  the 
quarry  where  Louarn  worked.  Her  whole 
young  heart  was  following  the  messenger  who 
had  brought  to  her  so  great  a  secret — the 
man  who  had  seen  her  real  mother. 

Having  finished  her  work  she  forgot  to 
take  the  wheelbarrow  back  to  the  shed. 

Higher  and  higher  went  the  man,  a  moving 
figure  against  the  white  dust.  The  wind 
grew  chill;  the  sun  was  setting;  the  vast 
plain,  already  melancholy  enough  under  its 
canopy  of  flying  clouds,  darkened  and  lost 
its  distant  outline. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  lazybones  ? 
What  are  you  staring  at  ?  " 

Noemi  shivered  and  hastened  to  take  up 
the  wheelbarrow  and  go  towards  the  house. 
The  voice  went  on  : 


232  THE   PENITENT 

"  You'll  catch  it  from  your  father  !  He'll 
give  you  a  good  hiding  !  Here  I've  been  gone 
two  hours  and  the  washing  isn't  dry  yet — in 
such  a  wind  as  this,  too  !  " 

The  girl  was  already  under  cover  of  the 
shed  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  voice,  helped 
by  the  noise  of  the  wind  rattling  the  tiles  and 
whistling  through  the  branches  of  the  poplars 
round  the  house. 

But  there  was  no  escape  for  Noemi.  A 
woman  appeared  upon  the  high-road,  and 
passing  the  turning,  opened  the  wicket  gate 
that  divided  the  quickset  hedge  in  the 
middle. 

The  woman,  who  had  with  her  a  thin, 
awkward-looking  girl  of  eleven,  was  a  solidly- 
built  termagant,  with  broad  shoulders,  whose 
piercing  yellow  eyes  seemed  perpetually  on 
the  look-out  for  a  quarrel.  Her  arms  ended 
in  a  pair  of  enormous  hands  that  could  have 
fought  a  strong  man. 

This  was  the  woman  with  whom  Louarn 
lived — called  "la  Louarn  "  in  the  district; 
the  woman  he  had  met  by  chance  during  the 
first  weeks  of  his  exile,  and  who  had  made 
her  appearance  one  evening  when  the  poor 
wanderer  was  attempting  to  light  a  fire  by 


THE   PASSER-BY  233 

the  road-side  to  cook  food  for  his  crying 
children. 

Noemi  could  remember  it ;  she  was  the  only 
inconvenient  witness  to  the  past — the  only 
one  who  could  say :  "I  once  had  another 
mother,  in  Brittany." 

"  You  lazy  hussy  !  "  the  woman  went  on, 
as  Noemi  came  into  the  front  room  of  the 
house.  "  I  suppose  you've  not  begun  to 
make  the  soup  yet !  The  saucepan  isn't 
even  on  the  fire,  and  the  potatoes  aren't 
peeled.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  I  hung  out  the  linen,  first,"  said  Noemi. 

"  First ! — First  your  father'll  be  back,  and 
I'll  tell  him  what  a  good-for-nothing  creature 
you  are  !  " 

Behind  her,  Lucienne  was  carrying  coals 
in  a  sack  as  well  as  some  starched  caps  in 
a  basket.  She  was  followed  by  Baptiste  who 
was  peeling  a  willow-twig  with  a  bit  of  glass. 

"Here's  the  coal,  Maman,"  she  said; 
"make  Noemi  work  now;  I've  had  my 
turn." 

La  Louarn  pointed  to  the  shed  where  the 
store  of  potatoes  was  kept,  calling  out  : 

"  Go  on,  you  lazy  thing  !    Make  the  soup  !  " 

The  words  hurt  Noemi  more  than  usual; 


234  THE   PENITENT 

in  her  inmost  heart  she  felt  so  sure  that  her 
real  mother  would  never  have  spoken  or  acted 
like  this  woman. 

Instead  of  obeying,  she  took  off  her  apron, 
and  said  :  "  You  can  make  it  yourself.  I'm 
going  to  dry  myself;  I'm  wet  through,  and 
I've  been  working  harder  than  you." 

The  woman  turned  purple. 

"  You  won't  do  what  I  tell  you,  you  little 
beast  ?  Won't  you,  indeed  ?  You  dare  to 
bandy  words  with  me  ? ': 

She  stooped,  seized  her  sabot  by  its  leather 
strap,  and  hurled  it  at  Noemi.  The  wooden 
sole  just  brushed  the  girl  in  passing,  then 
struck  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  room  and 
fell  upon  the  floor. 

"  That'll  teach  you  !  "  screamed  the  woman 
as  she  threw  it. 

The  words  were  still  ringing  in  the  room, 
mingled  with  Baptiste's  frightened  cries, 
when  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  almost  entirely 
filled  the  doorway. 

*  What's  the  matter,  now  ?  "  asked  a  deep, 
dull-toned  voice. 

It  was  Louarn. 

Grief,  the  wear  and  tear  of  work  and 
weather,  mistrust  of  himself  and  his  kind,  had 


THE   PASSER-BY  285 

carved  out  of  the  wooden  body  of  the  trans- 
planted Breton  this  statue  of  Poverty. 

Naturally  long  of  face,  his  jaw  had  length- 
ened and  drooped,  leaving  his  cracked  lips 
apart,  like  the  mouths  of  dried  herrings,  dis- 
torted by  death  and  fire.  The  lips  never  lost 
now  their  lamentable  curve,  and  the  lower 
part  of  the  face  had  kept  the  look  and  motions 
of  such  as  appeal  for  help. 

No  beard ;  flat  cheeks ;  the  skin  of  the  nose 
tight-stretched;  deep,  shadowy  hollows  be- 
neath the  eyebrows — hollows  dug  out  by 
weariness  and  tears — and  in  their  depths,  eyes 
scarcely  to  be  seen  and  looking  dark  because 
of  the  deep  shadow,  but  which,  in  the  full 
light  when  by  chance  they  were  clearly  seen, 
made  the  only  spot  of  light  in  the  sombre 
visage — eyes  of  the  colour  of  the  blue-grey 
sea,  the  colour  of  the  sea  when  it  runs  lazily 
and  foam-streaked  into  the  fishing-port 
harbours. 

Jean  Louarn  wore  his  hair  rather  long,  cut 
even  with  the  collar  of  his  jacket,  and,  like 
his  skin,  it  was  faded  and  reddened  by  the 
open  air.  He  walked  with  bent  back  and 
sunken  chest  and  nothing  of  youth  was  left 
him. 


236  THE   PENITENT 

But  he  held  by  the  hand  a  beautiful  rosy 
child  of  eight — Joel,  long  ago  brought  away 
from  the  farm  on  the  borders  of  Brittany 
where  he  had  been  left  and  cared  for,  and  who 
now  spent  the  day  with  his  father  in  the 
quarry  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

All  day  and  every  day  Louarn  worked  on 
the  hill  which  rose  a  short  distance  from  the 
house ;  a  bare  hill  save  for  a  group  or  two  of 
stunted  oaks  whose  branches  flattened  them- 
selves against  the  ground ;  and  on  the  summit 
of  which,  like  a  strong-built  castle,  stood  up  a 
ridge  of  barren  rocks  cut  in  half  by  the  road, 

There  lay  the  quarry  where,  seven  years 
earlier,  Louarn,  in  quest  of  work  and  tramping 
across  France,  had  been  hired  for  a  week. 
That  week  was  still  going  on. 

Incapable  of  learning  any  skilled  handi- 
craft, a  labourer  condemned  to  work  in  which 
the  mind  has  no  share,  he  hewed  the  stone 
in  a  quarry,  open  to  the  sky,  cut  out  of  the 
cliff. 

Under  the  burning  sun,  in  the  cold  blast  of 
the  rushing  wind,  which  explored  the  hill  as 
a  vessel  explores  an  island,  the  deliberate  and 
regular  strokes  of  Jean  Louarn' s  pickaxe 
cleaved  the  red  and  yellow  marble,  whose 


THE   PASSER-BY  237 

walls,  seen  from  the  road,  looked  like  slices 
of  meat. 

The  stone  was  used  by  the  builders  of 
the  district;  the  work  was  hard,  the  pay 
moderate;  but,  fortunately,  stoppages  were 
few. 

When,  at  night-fall,  Louarn  went  down 
towards  the  village  with  the  thirty  other  men 
employed  in  the  same  work,  nothing  dis- 
tinguished him  from  his  mates,  but  perhaps 
his  angular  frame  and  his  small  head,  restless 
and  fierce  as  a  sea-bird's. 

The  Breton's  eyes  never  lost  their  look  of 
disquiet  in  the  midst  of  this  land  of  peaceful 
hills  the  storms  left  unshaken ;  nowhere  could 
they  find  a  resting-place;  not  on  the  crops 
which  bore  no  resemblance  to  those  of 
Plceuc,  nor  on  the  ponds  that  shimmered 
here  and  there  on  the  plain  and  brought  the 
memory  of  the  sea  too  vividly  to  his  mind; 
nor  on  the  houses  in  the  neighbouring  town 
or  the  distant  villages;  for  many  years  of 
residence  had  not  sufficed  for  his  admittance 
to  their  life,  and  Louarn  was  still,  as  he  had 
been  from  the  first,  nothing  but  the  chance 
fellow-labourer,  to  be  tolerated,  but  always 
still  a  stranger,  to  be  distrusted. 


238  THE   PENITENT 

One  place  was  as  good  to  him  as  another 
and  he  inspired  no  interest  in  any  one. 

It  was  long  since  trouble  had  become  an 
inmate  of  his  house;  but  he  realized  it  even 
more  clearly  than  usual  this  March  evening 
when  he  came  home  to  find  every  one  either 
in  tears  or  screaming  with  rage. 

"  More  squabbles  going  on  !  "  he  said, 
peering  into  the  gloom  at  Baptiste  who  was 
picking  up  his  mother's  sabot. 

"  She  neglects  her  work  when  I'm  out  of 
the  house  !  "  screamed  the  woman;  "  that's 
the  sort  I  hate — a  fine  lady — a  gossip !  She'll 
never  bring  you  in  a  halfpenny,  Louarn ! 
She  hasn't  even  taken  the  trouble  to  make 
the  soup  !  " 

And  for  the  next  five  minutes,  the 
loud,  coarse  voice  echoed  under  the  smoke- 
darkened  rafters,  while  Louarn  and  the  four 
children  stood  silent  in  the  dying  light  and 
waited  till  the  torrent  of  abuse  the  woman 
was  pouring  out  on  the  head  of  the  eldest  girl 
should  come  to  an  end. 

When  she  had  finished :  "  Beg  your 
mother's  pardon,"  said  Louarn;  "  and  since 
the  soup's  not  made,  light  the  fire,  you  women ; 
we'll  wait." 


THE   PASSER-BY  239 

The  girl  made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"  Beg  her  pardon  !  "  said  Louarn  again. 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then,  with  a 
rush,  Noemi  burst  out  with  : 

"  She's  not  my  mother  !  She  detests  me ! 
Maman  was  called  Donatienne  !  " 

"  What's  that  you're  saying  !  " 

With  his  strong  arm,  Louarn  stopped  the 
termagant  as  she  rushed  forward  to  answer 
with  blows,  and  finding  herself  foiled,  she 
turned  upon  him  with  violent  abuse. 

"  You  let  me  be  insulted,  Louarn  !  You 
take  your  girl's  part  !  I've  had  about 
enough  of  your  miserable  life  in  this  filthy 
place  where  we've  never  had  anything  but 
poverty  and  contempt !  Who  cares  a  button 
for  you  here  ?  You  never  say  a  word — you 
don't  answer  when  you're  spoken  to  !  You've 
no  push  in  you  !  You  might  as  well  be  every- 
body's dog  !  I've  had  enough  of  it !  I'll 
go— I'll  quit  this  hole  and  the  rabble  you  keep 
here  !  " 

"  Go  then !  "  said  Louarn,  as  he  released  her. 

She  muttered  something  to  herself,  and, 
instead  of  going,  struck  a  match  and  set  fire 
to  a  bundle  of  twigs. 

And  it  soothed  them  all  to  see  the  flame 


240  THE   PENITENT 

rise  and  to  hear  no  more  noise — all  but 
Louarn,  who  dared  not  say  more  to  Noemi 
for  fear  of  a  violent  renewal  of  the  woman's 
fury,  but  who  had  drawn  Joel  to  his  side, 
and,  as  he  stroked  the  child's  brown  curls 
felt  a  pleasure  in  the  caress  as  if  it  were  being 
given  to  the  past. 

His  face  had  not  changed;  his  bony  hand 
moved  lingeringly  over  the  thick  lustrous 
dark  locks,  edged  with  gold  by  the  firelight. 

Noemi,  leaning  against  the  window,  ap- 
peared to  be  gazing  out  into  the  night,  or 
at  the  tops  of  the  surrounding  poplars, 
or  at  the  dense  pall  of  scurrying  clouds, 
just  touched  with  a  livid  light  over  the 
sunset. 

Louarn  was  sick  at  heart ;  he  was  thinking 
of  Donatienne. 

But  it  was  no  longer  the  young  lover- 
husband  who  had  shed  so  many  tears  when 
Donatienne  had  gone  from  the  Closerie  de 
Ros  Grignon  and  the  land  of  Ploeuc  to  take 
service  in  Paris  as  wet-nurse.  Very  far  away 
now  was  the  man  who  week  after  week  in 
his  anxiety  for  the  little  exiled  Bretonne  had 
looked  for  news  that  came  not ;  the  man  who 
had  cleared  the  waste  to  earn  a  little  more 


THE   PASSER-BY  241 

that  he  might  make  the  house  sweeter  for 
the  festival  of  her  return.  How  far  away 
now  was  the  farmer  cut  adrift  from  his  land, 
despoiled  of  his  scanty  furniture,  sold  to  pay 
the  proprietor;  the  tramp  without  work, 
without  parish,  without  object,  with  no 
thought  but  of  hunger,  who  had  been  seen 
one  morning,  with  his  three  children,  taking 
the  road  to  the  Vendee — the  road  that  leads 
away  from  Brittany,  and  by  which  the 
traveller  seldom  returns. 

For  many  a  day  now  anger  had  taken 
love's  place;  and  Louarn  had  not  ceased  to 
think  of  her,  but  now  it  was  to  accuse  her: 

"  She  did  it  all !  "  he  would  say;  "  wicked 
woman  !  Wicked  woman  !  " 

He  accused  her  too  of  having  been  his  ruin, 
her  forsaking  of  him  the  cause  of  the  wretched 
and  guilty  life  he  was  leading;  for  faith  was 
not  dead  in  this  son  of  Brittany,  and  although 
his  conscience  was  dulled  by  the  long  con- 
tinuance of  his  sin,  he  still  felt  the  need  of 
excusing  himself  in  his  own  eyes  and  he  did 
so  by  blaming  the  absent,  the  faithless,  the 
worthless,  Donatienne. 

And  in  his  dark  heart  as  he  pondered 
these  things,  his  grief  and  his  own  weakness 


242  THE   PENITENT 

mingled  in  confusion  and  the  phrase  most 
often  on  his  lips  was,  "  I've  had  no  luck  !  " 

Nevertheless,  since  there  is  nothing  more 
hidden,  even  from  ourselves,  than  our  real 
thoughts,  Louarn  had  been  pleased  to  see 
in  Noemi  that  likeness  to  the  other;  in  her 
slender  figure,  her  features  like  those  of  a 
china  doll,  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  Noerni 
greatly  resembled  Donatienne;  but  she  had 
not  her  mother's  light-mindedness. 

This  evening  when  that  name  had  burst 
so  suddenly  into  the  house  of  exile,  Louarn 
was  even  more  taciturn  than  usual. 

After  supper,  while  the  woman  slaked  the 
embers  on  the  hearth,  scolding  Joel  and 
Baptiste  for  being  so  slow  in  getting  to  bed 
in  the  next  room  the  while,  and  then  going 
out  to  lock  up  the  henroost  and  the  rabbit- 
hutch,  he  gazed  at  Noemi  and  Lucienne 
bringing  in  the  dried  linen  from  the  lines  in 
the  garden  with  a  pride  he  could  not  have 
explained  to  another. 

Piece  by  piece  they  were  folding  the  sheets 
and  towels  and  shirts  they  had  thrown  in 
heaps  over  their  left  shoulders.  It  was  dark 
outside;  the  room  was  lighted  at  the  end 
farthest  from  the  door  by  a  little  smoking 


THE   PASSER-BY  243 

lamp,  and  when,  in  the  half-light,  Noemi 
came  in  loaded,  with  loosened  hair,  and 
laughing  because  her  fourteen  years  needed 
joy  and  created  it  where  none  was,  Louarn 
had  a  distinct  vision  of  her  whose  name  he 
had  just  heard  afresh. 

The  memory  was  so  intensely  vivid  that, 
for  an  instant  he  looked  down  at  his  hands, 
those  poor  hands  that  had  suffered  so  much 
in  other  days  in  labouring  for  the  clearing  of 
the  waste  for  the  love  of  Donatienne;  and  he 
murmured :  "  She'll  haunt  me  for  ever,  I 
suppose." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  girl, 
pausing  in  the  folding  of  a  sheet. 

As  she  leant  towards  him,  with  her  shining 
eyes  upon  him,  she  was  so  like — so  like — that 
Louarn  began  to  cry. 

She  longed  to  tell  him  the  secret,  but  dared 
not.  .  .  . 

Night  put  innocence,  guilt,  anger,  ill- 
feeling,  to  sleep,  and  weariness  triumphed 
one  by  one  over  these  poor  creatures  a 
woman's  name  had  troubled. 

Noemi,  in  the  back  room,  in  the  white 
wooden  bed  where  she  slept  with  Lucienne, 
was  the  last  to  fall  asleep. 

Q2 


244  THE   PENITENT 

She  had  put  under  her  pillow  the  slip  of 
paper  with  her  mother's  address  on  it — that 
far-off  mother  that  she  could  still  see  dimly 
when  she  thought  of  her  early  childhood. 

"  Hainan,  I  thought  you  were  dead,"  she 
murmured  time  after  time;  "and  you're 
alive  !  I  should  like  to  see  you  again !  Oh, 
how  I  should  like  to  see  you  again  !  But  it 
can't  be — that  other  one  would  kill  you— 
she's  so  wicked  !  Maman  Donatienne,  if  I 
could  have  you  here — just  for  a  moment— 
beside  my  bed — and  kiss  you !  They'd 
know  nothing  about  it !  " 

She  lay  listening  to  the  wind  blowing  off 
the  plateau  on  to  the  plain,  at  its  mysterious 
task  amongst  the  timbers  of  the  house,  the 
leaves,  and  making  its  health-giving  way  into 
the  ground  of  the  enclosure. 

She  saw  again  the  man  who  had  appeared 
at  the  hedge  that  afternoon;  she  said  over 
again  the  words  he  had  said;  she  repeated 
the  whole  conversation  as  she  used  to  say  her 
catechism — questions  and  answers.  Where 
was  he  now  ?  Of  course  he  must  have  caught 
the  train  to  Paris,  and  now  he  must  be  far 
away,  taking  with  him  the  secret  that  he  had 
seen  No6mi. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  RETURN  OF   SUMMER 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE   RETURN   OF   SUMMER 

MEANWHILE  the  man  was  speeding  to  Paris ; 
and  he,  too,  could  not  sleep.  Lying  on  the 
seat  of  a  third-class  carriage,  he  thought  over 
what  he  ought  to  do. 

The  memory  of  Noemi,  as  she  stood  erect 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge — so  young,  so 
troubled,  and  then  so  terribly  upset — haunted 
him,  and  thinking  of  her  great  likeness  to 
Donatienne  he  swore  to  himself  that  they 
were  assuredly  mother  and  daughter. 

He  wondered  what  would  be  the  result  if 
he  called  at  Levallois-Perret.  If  he  did,  that 
mother,  whom  he  had  seen  trembling  with 
passionate  emotion,  would  rush  off  to  la 
Creuse — nothing  would  keep  her  back.  Then 
there  would  be  terrible  scenes  in  the  quarry- 
man's  house — scenes  such  as  he  read  of  every 
day  in  the  newspapers  under  the  title  of 

"  Dramas  of  Jealousy." 

247 


248  THE   PENITENT 

The  girl  was  right;  Donatienne  mustn't  go 
back — that  was  certain. 

But  wouldn't  it  be  the  best  way  of  prevent- 
ing strife  if  he  held  his  tongue  ? 

Anyway,  there  was  no  hurry ;  the  mother 
was  pretty  well  certain  her  children  were 
alive,  and,  since  she  couldn't  go  back  to  her 
husband  and  them,  wasn't  it  best  to  leave 
things  as  they  were  ? 

"  Really,"  he  decided  at  last,  "  I  risk  nothing 
by  not  going ;  I  owe  the  woman  nothing,  and, 
in  fact,  I'm  saving  her  from  trouble." 

He  was  a  cautious  fellow  and  already 
inclined  to  regret  having  got  mixed  up  in  the 
beginning  of  a  quarrel;  so  he  went  back  to 
his  work  and  forgot  Donatienne. 

And  summer  came  once  more  to  France. 

It  warmed  the  workmen's  district  where 
Donatienne  had  ceased  to  expect  anything 
from  life,  trying  to  convince  herself  that  that 
chance  customer  had  never  really  seen  her 
children.  "  He  deceived  me,"  she  thought 
to  herself,  "  that  man,  with  his  talk ;  or 
perhaps  he  saw  a  Joel  that  belonged  to  some 
one  else,  and  that's  why  he  didn't  come  back 
this  way." 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  249 

If  she  could  have  discovered  where  they 
lived,  she  felt  she  might  have  been  capable 
of  making  an  effort  for  their  sake;  but  now 
there  was  no  more  chance  of  finding  out, 
and  she  was  fated  to  grow  old  in  her  wretched- 
ness and  weary  indifference  to  everything. 

And  the  sun  shines  upon  the  fields  of  Ros 
Grignon,  where  the  name  of  Louarn  is  now 
not  even  a  memory;  it  shines  upon  the 
Forest  of  Plceuc  with  its  masses  of  swaying 
foliage.  Strayed  sea-mews,  taking  it  for  the 
sea  because  of  its  billows  of  living  green  and 
the  sound  of  its  song,  fly  towards  it,  and  pause 
before  taking  wing  for  the  coasts. 

It  blazes  upon  the  plain  where  dwell  the 
poor  emigrants  from  Brittany,  and  upon  the 
hill  with  its  quarry. 

Louarn  works  at  the  very  top,  his  feet 
embedded  in  a  heap  of  earth  and  fragments 
of  stone,  at  the  foot  of  a  tall  upright  wall  of 
yellow  stone  his  pickaxe  cleaves.  The  iron 
rings  upon  the  stone  and  rebounds.  In  the 
defile  the  heat  is  so  intense  that  the  labourers' 
dogs,  finding  the  ground  unbearable,  have 
trotted  off  along  the  high-road  to  seek  the 
shade. 


250  THE   PENITENT 

The  men  stay  on,  since  so  they  earn  their 
living. 

Scattered  about,  they  look  very  small  at 
the  foot  of  the  rocks  they  are  carving  into 
slices.  From  their  rock-castle  they  look 
over  the  entire  plain,  whereon  silence  reigns, 
for  men  and  things  alike  are  oppressed  by 
the  heat.  The  world  is  almost  as  soundless 
as  if  it  were  snowbound;  only  the  ringing 
of  the  iron  picks,  monotonous  and  shrill  as 
the  grasshopper's  chirp — drops  down  into 
the  lower  land. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when 
a  terrible  cry  shivered  these  small  sounds  of 
the  quarry,  and  people  scattered  about  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  turning  round,  saw  a  cloud 
of  dust  arise,  such  as  issues  from  a  barn  when 
wheat  is  being  threshed  inside. 

Then  half-a-dozen  quarrymen  appeared  at 
the  side  of  the  road  which  crossed  the  quarry 
on  its  way  down  to  the  villages. 

They  were  making  signs,  and  several  were 
shouting  confused  and  indistinguishable 
words;  and,  lying  on  a  stretcher,  they  were 
carrying  a  man,  apparently  unconscious  and 
covered  with  blood. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  251 

They  were  shouting  for  cold  water  and 
linen;  but  no  one  came  near  and  they  went 
on  downwards. 

In  the  light,  the  face  of  the  wounded  man 
looked  of  a  chalky  whiteness,  and  to  protect 
it,  one  of  the  quarrymen  had  plucked  a  couple 
of  fern  leaves  by  the  wayside  and  laid  them 
over  it;  they  swayed  to  and  fro  with  the 
movements  of  the  stretcher. 

Not  a  man  spoke.  The  quarrymen,  the 
wounded  man's  daily  mates,  grouped  at  the 
top  of  the  hill,  watched  the  tragic  descent, 
and  tears,  mingled  with  sweat,  fell  from  the 
eyes  of  the  rough-faced  carriers. 

When  they  reached  the  shade  at  the  bottom 
of  the  slope,  they  turned  to  the  right,  opened 
the  little  gate  and  went  into  the  Louarns' 
enclosure. 

From  each  side  of  it  came  a  woman's 
scream,  and  Noemi,  with  outstretched  arms, 
and  Louarn's  companion,  with  a  bitter  oath, 
rushed  towards  the  bearers. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Tell  me  !     Is  he  dead  ?  " 

"  Be  off,  Noemi ;  go  and  turn  down  his 
bed  !  " 

"  Oh,     he    can't   speak !     He   can't   see ! 


252  THE   PENITENT 

Oh,  look  how  he's  bleeding !  Father ! 
Father  !  " 

Putting  aside  both  the  girl,  and  the  woman 
who  was  screaming  :  "It's  only  to  us  things 
like  this  happen  !  It  always  falls  upon  us  !  " 
the  bearers  passed  by  the  cabbage-bed,  and 
entering  the  front  room,  laid  their  comrade 
on  the  bed  near  the  window.  The  reflection 
of  the  serge  curtains  sent  a  greenish  light  over 
Louarn's  face. 

"  He's  dead,  isn't  he  ?  "  said  Noemi.  Two 
elderly  labourers  who  were  standing  still, 
stupefied  and  weary,  took  their  eyes  from  the 
poor  victim,  to  say  : 

"  I  don't  think  so — he's  still  breathing." 

A  young  fellow  with  a  pointed,  pale  face 
and  a  small  turned-up  moustache,  stepped 
aside  to  Noemi,  saying  : 

"I've  got  a  bike  near  here,  Mam'selle 
Noemi;  I'll  go  for  the  doctor.  If  there's 
any  hope,  he'll  tell  you.  It  won't  take  me 
more  than  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  and  I 
won't  loiter  on  the  way,  never  fear  !  " 

And  as  she  stooped  to  listen  if  there  were 
still  signs  of  breath,  he  went  on  : 

"  This   is   how   it   happened :    great  heat 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  253 

splits  the  stone  sometimes;  Louarn  had  no 
time  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  it  fell  upon  his 
legs  right  from  the  top  of  the  quarry — half-a- 
dozen  yards  perhaps.  I  picked  him  up;  he 
was  almost  buried  under  it.  He  only  gave 
one  cry,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  and  then  he 
shut  them  as  they  are  now  and  he  hasn't 
stirred  since,  no  more  than  if  he  was  dead. 
That's  correct,  isn't  it,  mates  ?  " 

He  nodded  a  farewell,  pulled  his  hat  over 
his  eyes  and  went  for  the  doctor. 

The  other  labourers  confirmed  his  account, 
biting  their  lips  at  the  sound  of  Noemi, 
Lucienne,  and  the  two  little  boys  standing 
together  by  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  crying 
and  calling  for  their  father.  And  one  after 
the  other  they  said,  as  if  it  were  an  explana- 
tion and  a  consolation  : 

"  It's  the  sort  of  work  that's  to  blame. 
Some  folk  have  no  luck.     Poor  Louarn  !  " 

And  soon  they  went,  all  but  one,  the  oldest 
of  them,  who  stayed  to  help  the  woman 
undress  the  unconscious  man. 

Blood  was  flowing  from  a  score  of  places 
down  from  his  stomach  to  below  his  knees — 
gaping  holes,  bruises,  cuts  made  by  the 


254  THE   PENITENT 

bursting  of  the  compressed  skin,  and  powdered 
with  chips  of  stone,  dust  and  bits  of  his 
clothing. 

As  night  fell,  a  carriage  drew  up  outside  on 
the  road.  Louarn  had  awakened  from  his 
long  faint,  and  for  the  last  two  hours  had 
never  ceased  moaning. 

Two  women  were  watching  him,  but  the 
woman  who  had  lived  with  him  for  seven 
years  was  not  one  of  them.  They  were  two 
women  from  the  village  who  had  come  up 
on  hearing  of  the  accident;  but  she  herself, 
maddened  and  irritated  by  the  ceaseless 
moaning,  waited  outside,  watching  for  the 
doctor,  guessing  at  the  rounds  he  must  be 
making  in  the  town,  and  appearing  at  the  door 
only  to  repeat  with  hands  clutching  at  her 
head  :  "I  can't  hear  him  coming  !  "  and  then 
rushing  out  again. 

It  was  she  who  opened  the  gate  to  admit 
a  stout,  short,  quick-spoken  man,  who  had 
never  before  been  in  this  part  of  the  district 
and  had  lost  his  way. 

"  No  easy  task  to  find  you,  my  good 
woman !  A  place  only  fit  for  savages  ! 
Where  is  he  ?  " 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  255 

"  In  there — can't  you  hear  him  ?  " 

The  doctor  entered  the  room  lighted  up 
by  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  for  the  potatoes 
were  being  cooked  for  supper.  The  flames 
leapt  higher  than  the  frame  of  the  bed  whereon 
lay  the  wounded  man,  and  the  doctor  per- 
ceived a  thin,  clean-shaven,  contorted  face, 
and  a  pair  of  eyes  shining  in  the  light  like 
luminous  cones  and  at  times  rolling  upwards 
out  of  sight,  while  from  his  lips  issued  the 
persistent  moaning,  filling  the  room  and 
escaping  into  the  warm,  harvest-scented  night. 

La  Louarn  went  backwards  and  forwards, 
repeating  under  her  breath  :  "  Monsieur  le 
Medecin,  is  he  going  to  die  ?  " 

At  the  end  of  an  hour,  the  doctor,  who  had 
taken  no  notice  of  her  question,  stood  upright, 
and,  as  if  he  had  only  just  heard  it,  answered  : 

"  No,  I  think  he'll  live;  but  he'll  never  use 
his  legs  again." 

The  woman  came  up  to  him,  with  haggard 
face  and  stooping  body,  moved  to  insult  by 
suffering,  that  supreme  test  of  character. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  You  can't  mend 
him  ?  " 

"  Not    entirely,"    said    the    doctor    awk- 


256  THE   PENITENT 

wardly,  glancing  at  his  hands  and  looking 
round  for  a  basin  and  soap. 

"It's  all  up,  then  !  Who's  going  to  keep 
us  now  ?  Do  you  know  there  are  four 
children  in  the  house  ?  If  we  were  rich  folk 
you'd  manage  to  get  him  out  of  the  scrape 
fast  enough !  It's  all  up,  I  say !  What 
do  you  suppose  I'm  to  do  with  a  cripple  ?  " 

The  doctor  took  hold  of  a  towel  one  of  the 
village  women  held  out  to  him,  and  made  no 
answer. 

Then,  ignoring  the  woman  who  had  first 
spoken,  he  gave  various  directions  to  the 
others,  and  promised  to  call  again,  without 
fixing  any  particular  day,  as  is  the  way  of 
doctors  when  they  foresee  a  lengthy  and  in- 
curable malady. 

He  crossed  the  little  garden  alone,  but  at 
the  far  end,  a  slender  figure  rose  out  of  the 
darkness  and  Noemi  asked  :  "  Monsieur,  is 
it  really  true  that  he'll  never  be  able  to  work 
again  ?  " 

The  big  man,  as  he  stumbled  over  the 
ground,  tired  after  his  day's  work  and  the 
hour  he  had  just  passed  inside  the  house  and 
room  whose  vitiated  air  seemed  to  be  trying 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  257 

to  leave  his  garments  and  disperse  into  the 
night,  started  and  stopped  short  ready  to 
make  some  rough  answer.  But  at  the  sound 
of  the  voice  and  the  sight  of  Noemi's  slender 
shadowy  outline  against  the  whiteness  of  the 
gate,  he  realized  that  this  was  one  of  the 
children  of  the  wounded  man — the  poor 
wretch  under  sentence. 

"  My  child,"  he  answered,  "  I'm  afraid 
it's  you  who'll  have  to  work  for  him  now." 

"  I've  thought  of  that  already,"  said  the 
voice;  "I  shall  soon  be  fourteen.  I'll  take 
a  situation,  and  send  home  the  money  I  earn. 
I'm  very  strong." 

The  doctor  gazed  at  the  slim  apparition. 
"  And  the  younger  ones  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Lucienne  will  look  after  them.  She  and 
I  settled  all  that  just  now." 

"I'll  come  again  to-morrow  without  fail," 
said  the  man,  as  he  opened  the  gate;  "I'll 
come  about  noon." 

He  walked  a  few  paces  along  the  road  at 
the  edge  of  which  his  horse,  purposely  loosely 
tied,  was  cropping  the  grass ;  for  five  minutes 
the  carriage  lamp  flickered  between  the  road- 
side oaks,  and  then  disappeared. 


258  THE   PENITENT 

Very  early  the  next  day,  when  Noemi  got 
up  after  a  bad  night,  she  peeped  through  the 
door  between  the  two  rooms. 

The  moaning,  which  had  ceased  during 
part  of  the  night,  had  begun  again,  but  feebler 
and  with  gasps  of  exhaustion,  and  the  girl 
saw  that  her  father  wanted  something  to 
drink. 

The  women  from  the  village  had  left  about 
eleven  o'clock  at  night,  promising  to  return, 
but  had  not  yet  come. 

Noemi  jumped  out  of  bed,  put  on  a  short 
petticoat,  and  gave  the  sick  man — fever- 
smitten  and  oppressed — a  little  milk.  Per- 
haps he  recognized  his  daughter,  but  he  did 
not  smile  at  her. 

She  fancied  the  danger  had  increased,  but 
the  fire  must  be  lighted  all  the  same  as  usual, 
to  add  to  the  heat  of  the  already  too  hot  room 
and  to  worry  the  sick  man  with  the  blazing 
of  the  wood. 

Noemi  went  outside  to  get  some  turf  from 
the  place  where  it  was  stored  near  the 
rabbit-hutches,  thinking  it  would  make  less 
flame. 

No  doubt  the  woman  who  was  called  La 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  259 

Louarn  must  have  had  the  same  idea,  since 
she  was  not  in  the  room. 

The  child  came  back  with  some  lumps  of 
turf  without  meeting  the  woman  and  lighted 
the  fire. 

Just  as  the  cocks  began  to  crow  the  women 
from  the  village  came  in. 

'  Where's  your  mother,  my  dear  ?  "  they 
asked. 

"  Perhaps  she's  gone  to  the  village,"  said 
Noemi;  "  for  I've  seen  nothing  of  her  since  I 
got  up." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  one  of  the  women;  "  the 
shops  aren't  open  yet." 

*  Then  she  may  be  gone  up  to  the  quarry," 
said  Noemi ;  "  for  father's  tools  were  left 
there,  and  she  can't  bear  anything  to  be 
lost." 

The  doctor  came  and  dressed  the  wounds 
afresh;  then  left  the  house,  shaking  his  head 
and  with  words  that  promised  little  good. 
But  La  Louarn  did  not  make  her  appearance 
neither  at  noon  for  the  midday  meal,  nor  at 
two  o'clock  nor  at  three. 

The  father  grew  weaker  and  delirious; 
Joel  and  Lucienne,  sent  to  the  quarry,  and 


B  2 


260  THE   PENITENT 

then  to  the  village,  for  news,  brought  back 
words  that  nobody  had  seen  La  Louarn. 

One  of  the  women  in  attendance  on  the  sick 
man — a  stout  woman  with  a  moustache- 
said  :  "  Perhaps  she's  killed  herself." 

"Oh,  no!"  said  the  other;  "when  she 
heard  he  was  so  bad,  she  looked  quite  wild, 
and  I  saw  plain  enough  she  wasn't  thinking 
about  him  but  about  herself.  I  don't  want 
to  upset  you,  my  little  Noemi,  but  I  believe 
she  won't  come  back  again." 

"  Don't  say  so  to  the  children,"  said  Noemi 
simply. 

The  woman  was  amazed  that  she  did  not 
cry.  But  as  night  came  on,  the  younger 
ones  began  to  be  uneasy.  Lucienne  and  Joel, 
who  believed  themselves  to  be  the  woman's 
children,  cried  as  they  asked  where  she  was, 
and  Baptiste,  at  sight  of  their  tears,  ran  about 
the  house  with  them  calling  out :  "  Where 
are  you,  Maman  !  Maman,  where  are  you  ?  " 

And  while  they  kept  awake,  the  children 
were  as  much  troubled  as  is  possible  at  eleven, 
eight  or  six  years  of  age. 

It  was  Noemi  who  sat  up  with  her  father 
from  midnight  till  dawn. 


She  felt  herself  quite  alone  in  the  darkness, 
so  full  of  dreams,  and  fears,  and  plans. 

They  beset  her  as  they  had  beset  her  for- 
bears in  other  days  amid  the  fields  of  buck- 
wheat and  gorse;  as  they  had  frightened, 
comforted  and  deluded  another  young  woman 
very  like  herself,  keeping  long  watches  over 
cradles ;  and  as  they  had  beset  even  the  poor 
emaciated  wretch,  consumed  by  fever,  twice 
forsaken  and  who,  too,  had  once  known  youth 
and  dreamed  dreams  in  nights  of  wakefulness. 

His  sleep  was  broken  by  shudderings  and 
plaints  and  phantoms  of  fever. 

She  gazed  at  him,  at  times  thinking  he  was 
speaking  to  her,  then  realizing  that  he  was 
wandering. 

When  she  was  not  looking  at  him,  she 
thought  of  the  morrow,  and  when  her  eyes 
returned  to  his  face,  her  thoughts  went  back 
to  her  childhood  and  far-off  things. 

And  perchance,  amongst  those  far-off  things 
each  found  the  other,  travellers  pursuing  the 
same  memories,  unseen  of  each  other,  un- 
certain of  their  nearness. 

One  wandered  in  delirium  while  the  other 
mused,  her  small  head  supported  by  her 


262  THE   PENITENT 

hands,  the  candle  between  her  and  her 
father. 

Sometimes  she  murmured  words  to  herself 
to  break  the  utter  loneliness  and  the  wailing 
of  the  wind  as,  emboldened  by  the  silence,  it 
roamed  around  the  house. 

Poor  father  !  She  had  no  memory  of  his 
face  as  it  was  while  he  was  still  young;  but 
she  remembered  the  house  on  the  top  of  a 
little  hill,  and  the  bright  light  round  about  it, 
and  the  darkness  inside  it,  and  the  cow  whose 
pretty  head  appeared  when  you  opened  the 
door  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  Joel's  cradle 
which  she  herself,  as  a  little  child,  had  rocked 
by  the  help  of  a  cord. 

She  gathered  all  these  memories  together 
with  others  that  represented  her  past  happi- 
ness, and  then  she  began  to  wonder  if  her 
father  might  not,  too,  keep  similar  happy 
memories  of  those  days;  she  felt  sure  he 
must. 

He  looked  as  if  he  were  asleep,  but  he  was 
evidently  in  pain. 

Then,  as  if  she  longed  to  send  a  message  to 
the  soul  imprisoned  behind  that  impenetrable 
mask — the  soul  enmeshed  in  the  nightmare  of 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  268 

pain — with  set  lips  and  gentle  voice,  into 
the  silent  room  she  spoke  one  clear  word : 

"  Donatienne  !  " 

She  waited;  no  life  came  back  to  the 
fevered  face;  neither  joy  nor  sorrow  greeted 
the  long-silent  name. 

A  second  time  the  name  of  the  mother  she 
loved,  the  wife  he  had  once  loved,  trembled 
into  the  night. 

The  wounded  man's  eyelids  fluttered  feebly 
upwards,  enough  for  Noemi  to  receive  the 
impression  of  a  look,  of  an  answer  sent  from 
the  sick  and  wandering  spirit. 

The  look  seemed  to  her  full  of  reproach, 
and  the  next  moment  she  thought  the  trem- 
bling lips  murmured :  "  Be  silent ;  don't  speak 
to  me  of  my  bitterest  sorrow  !  " 

And  then  the  man's  whole  being  slipped 
back  into  the  obsession  of  suffering,  with 
closed  eyes  and  hollowed  cheeks,  and  livid 
patches  at  the  corners  of  the  distorted  mouth. 

Noemi  sat  and  thought. 

At  break  of  day  when  through  the  chinks 
in  the  shutters  came  the  first  rays  of  light,  like 
a  sprinkling  of  hoar-frost,  she  went  to  the 
window  which  looked  out  towardCthejpoplars 


264  THE   PENITENT 

and  the  fields,  and  leaning  on  the  wooden  sill, 
her  back  to  her  father,  lest  he  might  surprise 
her  secret,  she  began  to  write. 

Very  slowly,  not  for  want  of  words,  but  for 
want  of  skill  to  form  them,  the  eldest  of  the 
Louarn  children  wrote  her  letter  to  "  Madame 
Donatienne  "  at  the  address  the  passer-by  had 
given  her. 

She  waited  till  the  sun  rose,  then  stopping 
the  egg-dealer  as  he  went  by,  she  gave  him 
the  letter  to  post  in  the  box  at  the  station  on 
the  plateau. 

The  man  reined  in  the  lean  horse  he  had 
pushed  into  a  trot. 

"  It  shall  be  done,  my  dear,"  he  said. 

He  spelt  out  the  address,  which  gave  him 
no  surprise,  since  he  came  from  a  distance  and 
felt  no  interest  in  these  Louarns,  common 
people  whose  garden  was  just  a  blot  on  the 
road  his  cart  travelled. 

But  Noemi  had  blushed  as  she  gave  him  the 
letter,  as  if  it  had  been  a  love-letter. 

All  her  hopes  and  all  her  dreams  were 
enclosed  in  that  small  envelope,  on  which 
the  big,  careful  writing  said  :  "  A  Madame 
Donatienne,"  and  while  she  watched  the 


covered  cart  diminish  and  disappear,  she  tried 
to  imagine  what  would  happen. 

How  long  would  the  letter  take  to  arrive  ? 
Not  long,  she  supposed. 

Though  Noemi  had  never  set  foot  in  a 
train,  she  had  seen  them  pass,  and  she  knew 
they  all  went  to  Paris,  with  their  clouds  of 
white  smoke  upon  their  backs,  and  so  fast — 
so  fast  ! 

Where  would  her  mother  be  ?  In  some 
house  that  Noemi  pictured  to  herself  like  those 
in  the  market  town.  Donatienne  would  be 
standing  in  a  brick-laid  porch ;  she  would  be 
knitting  like  the  women  in  the  village;  she 
would  open  the  letter  and  say  : 

"It  is  from  my  child  No6mi !  There  has 
been  an  accident  at  home  !  " 

But  after  that  Noe"mi  could  imagine  nothing 
more,  and  she  fell  a  prey  to  distress  and 
anxiety  which  increased  as  the  day  went 
on. 

Towards  the  evening  these  became  so 
intense  that,  weary  of  suffering  without 
complaint,  and  more  weary  still  with  the 
sight  and  sound  of  the  sick  man's  sufferings, 
she  left  the  two  kind  women  who  were  watch- 


266  THE   PENITENT 

ing  him,  for  a  little  while,  and  beckoned  to 
Lucienne  and  Joel. 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?  '*  said  Lucienne 
softly  when  they  were  outside. 

Noemi  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips. 

The  children  followed  her,  Lucienne  fair 
and  rosy,  but  not  so  delicately  made  or  vivid 
as  her  sister;  Joel  with  his  curly  head,  and 
wearing  a  pair  of  breeches  held  to  his  shoulder 
by  a  single  brace. 

Walking  in  single  file,  they  reach  the  road 
and  turn  to  the  right  where  the  ground  begins 
to  rise. 

The  three  young  creatures  mount  the  hill, 
the  heart  of  one  full  of  trouble  like  a  woman's, 
the  others  a  little  sorry,  like  children. 

They  do  not  speak ;  Joel  eats  blackberries 
from  the  dust-laden  hedges.  They  can  hear 
the  sound  of  the  quarrymen's  picks,  for  work 
goes  on  as  usual,  only  without  the  man  who 
but  yesterday  was  hurt. 

The  oak-trees  are  more  stunted  and 
scattered  on  the  slope,  where  stone  crops  up 
everywhere. 

The  path  is  hard  to  climb.  Noemi  crosses 
the  quarry  from  end  to  end,  and  some  of  the 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  267 

quarrymen  standing  on  invisible  ledges  of 
the  rock  they  are  cleaving  and  looking  a  part 
of  it,  call  out  from  the  distance  : 

"  Hi  !  little  Noemi  !  Is  le  pere  Louarn  any 
better  ?  " 

She  shakes  her  small  head,  held  a  little  high 
and  haughtily,  and  goes  on  without  stopping ; 
she  cannot  speak — her  heart  is  too  full. 

She  goes  through  the  narrow  pass  where 
the  path  is  but  a  notch  cut  out  of  the  wall 
of  rock,  and  beyond  which  the  hill  slopes 
downwards  to  the  north,  clothed  with  broom 
and  fern. 

Now  she  is  out  of  sight  of  all  save  Lucienne 
and  Joel,  wondering  and  asking,  "  Where 
are  we  going  ?  " 

But  she  goes  on  to  a  bit  of  rising  ground  at 
the  side  of  the  road  giving  a  wide  outlook  over 
the  whole  landscape.  Many  a  time  has  Noemi 
cast  pebbles  from  here  into  the  valley  beneath, 
the  deep  valley  filled  with  swaying  tree-tops ; 
many  a  time  has  she  lingered  there  gazing 
at  the  immense  stretch  of  fallows,  of  wheat 
and  lucerne  in  the  meadows,  and  the  changing 
pageant  of  the  sky  above  them. 

To-day  she  has  no  eyes  but  for  the  plateau 


268  THE   PENITENT 

rising  to  the  north  above  the  narrow  valley, 
and  for  the  ribbon  of  road  the  eye  can  follow 
on  it — twisting,  disappearing,  reappearing, 
till  it  is  lost  in  the  general  view  where  every- 
thing seems  to  mingle  in  dust-like  confusion. 

It  is  the  high-road  leading  from  the  unseen 
station  on  the  heath — the  road  along  which 
come  the  few  travellers  who  have  any  business 
in  the  district. 

The  two  younger  children  have  followed 
Noemi  on  to  the  hillock.  The  level  light  of 
the  declining  day  mellows  the  whole  expanse. 

"  Can  you  see  any  one  on  the  road  ?  "  asks 
Noemi. 

"  I  can  see  a  flock  of  sheep  and  a  shepherd ; 
but  they're  very  far  off.  Will  the  doctor  come 
that  way  ?  " 

"  It's  our  mother,"  says  Noemi. 

"  She's  run  away — why,  you  know  that  !  " 
says  Lucienne;  and  she  lifts  her  sunburnt 
face  with  its  ruffled  locks  gilded  by  the  sun 
to  the  delicate  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  of  her 
elder  sister,  who  answers  : 

"  The  one  that  is  coming  is  the  real  one." 

She  speaks  softly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
distance,  and  so  gravely  that  the  two  younger 


THE  RETURN  OF  SUMMER  269 

ones  take  the  truth  of  what  she  says  for 
granted,  and  themselves  begin  to  watch  the 
high-road  for  the  mother  who  is  to  come 
along  it. 

"  Is  she  old  ?  "  asks  Lucienne,  as  Noemi 
herself  had  done ;  and  she  answers  :  "  Not 
at  all  old.  She  must  come;  if  not  we  shall 
be  ruined,  my  darlings " 

They  have  no  real  comprehension  of  what 
she  means,  but  it  touches  them,  and  their  eyes 
fill  with  tears. 

Night  is  falling;  the  road  grows  grey — 
grey  to  the  very  end;  there  is  no  one  on  it; 
the  mother  does  not  come. 

The  children  grow  weary  of  their  watch, 
and  begin  to  finger  the  plants  and  stones; 
but  Noemi,  standing  alone,  one  side  of  her 
face  lighted  up  by  the  paling  sunset,  clasps 
her  hands  under  her  apron  and  whispers  to 
the  wind  that  breathes  from  the  shadows  : 
"  Come  back  !  Come  back  !  " 

Now  the  lower  valley  is  quite  hidden  in 
the  twilight,  which  even  on  the  plateau  has 
merged  the  road  into  the  waste  around ;  and 
Noemi  turns  away.  Her  face  is  so  sad  that 
the  children,  from  either  side  looking  up  at 


270  THE   PENITENT 

her,  take  each  a  hand  to  comfort  her,  and  so 
they  return  to  the  house. 

The  quarrymen  have  gone  home;  the  day 
is  done;  Louarn's  fever  has  not  abated;  the 
women  declare  he  can't  live. 

The  next  day,  once  more  Noemi,  with 
Lucienne  and  Joel,  kept  her  watch  from  the 
hillock  on  the  top  of  the  hill ;  but  the  expected 
traveller  did  not  appear.  And,  on  the  fourth 
day,  little  Noemi  gave  up  hope  and  went  up 
there  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  MOTHER 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE   MOTHER 

THAT  fourth  day  the  little  Louarns  gave  up 
going  to  the  quarry-hill;  yet,  on  that  very 
day,  a  woman  was  journeying  towards  them. 

It  was  only  that  morning  she  had  received 
the  letter,  the  egg-dealer  having  put  it  in  his 
pocket  and  forgotten  to  post  it. 

A  stranger,  travelling  a  strange  country, 
bent  double,  her  head  in  her  hands,  or 
squeezed  into  a  corner  of  a  third-class  carriage, 
she  was  coming. 

One  thought  absorbed  her  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else  :  "In  what  fashion  should  she  first 
show  herself  to  them ;  how  should  she  answer 
when  they  asked,  '  Where  have  you  been, 
Maman '  ?  They  would  never  believe  her  if 
she  said  :  '  I  loved  you  all  the  same.'  : 

To  be  disbelieved,  or  despised  sooner  or 
later  by  the  children  she  had  borne;  to  take 

home  with  her  her  seven-years' -old  sin,  and 
s  273 


274  THE  PENITENT 

to  feel  it  ever  present  when  they  kissed  her 
forehead  !  To  live  between  this  remorse  and 
her  husband's  possible  vengeance  and  certain 
reproaches  !  To  go  back  to  the  old  poverty 
aggravated  by  illness  !  To  bury  herself  once 
more  under  the  old  duties,  grown  greater 
now,  and  herself  bereft  of  that  early  youth 
which  is  so  great  a  help  and  encouragement  ! 
What  a  future !  And  it  was  to  all  this  she 
was  going  !  Why  had  she  started,  she  asked 
herself ;  she  could  not  explain  it. 

"  How  could  I  do  it  ?  I'm  only  going  back 
to  more  wretchedness — always  more  !  always 
more  !  " 

The  train  had  been  travelling  for  hours; 
the  sun  blazed  upon  the  seat  where  she  sat 
huddled.  Now  it  was  declining ;  its  rays  fell 
aslant  like  wheat  spilt  from  the  ear ;  but  she 
saw  and  felt  nothing  but  her  own  trouble. 

Yes — how  had  she  come  to  make  up  her 
mind  so  suddenly  ?  Over  and  over  again  her 
mind  went  over  the  events  of  the  morning. 

What  time  had  it  been  ?  Half -past  seven— 
that  or  a  little  later,  perhaps.  She  had  been 
going  out  to  do  her  marketing ;  she  had  put 
on  her  straw  hat  against  her  usual  custom, 


THE   MOTHER  275 

which  was  to  go  out  bareheaded  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  postman  had  come  in — a 
letter  in  an  unknown  handwriting.  She  had 
opened  it — read  it — fortunately  no  customer 
had  arrived;  she  could  kiss  the  page  ten — 
twenty,  times. 

It's  Noemi  who  has  written  that  letter  ! 
She  pleads  for  help,  neither  doubting  nor 
arguing  about  it ;  she  only  pleads  for  help  ! 

She  must  go.  She  must  see  once  more  her 
first-born  child,  Noemi,  who  is  so  like  herself ; 
she  must  once  more  press  her  children  to  her 
breast,  hold  them  tight — all  three  of  them 
round  her,  their  arms  round  her  neck. 

And  this  vision  of  maternal  delight  had  been 
so  vivid  that  Donatienne  had  run  up  again 
into  her  bedroom,  opened  the  wardrobe,  and 
from  the  top  shelf  taken  a  parcel  sewn  up 
in  a  napkin  and  grey  with  accumulated  dust. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for,  Donatienne  ? 
Why  have  you  come  back  ?  " 

Bastien  Laray  was  still  half-asleep. 

"  Nothing,  go  to  sleep  again ;  I'm  going  to 
the  linen-draper's." 

Then  she  had  hurried  downstairs,  taken  the 

key  of  the  till,  and  put  all  the  money  she  found 

s  2, 


276  THE   PENITENT 

there  in  her  pocket.     Wouldn't  he  get  all  the 
rest  ?     Oh,  no  !    she  wasn't  robbing  him— 
quite  the  contrary ;  she  was  leaving  him  much 
more  than  his  due. 

Then,  half  crazy  with  both  joy  and  fear, 
she  had  taken  the  local  train  and  then  the 
central  main  line. 

And  now,  stronger  and  stronger  grew  her 
reluctance  to  reach  the  end  of  her  journey; 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  being  hurried  into  an 
abyss. 

The  dread  grew  and  grew  as  that  end  came 
nearer,  and  she  recoiled  from  her  first  impulse, 
like  a  man  on  his  way  to  give  himself  up  to 
justice,  who  recoils  and  turns  back  at  the  last 
minute. 

She  did  not  dream  of  returning  to  Paris; 
all  that  was  done  with;  she  was  freed  from 
slavery ;  but  why  rush  to  something  similar  ? 
It  would  be  so  easy  to  get  out  at  this  station 
or  that,  near  some  village,  perhaps ;  she  would 
always  be  able  to  find  work  enough  to  keep 
herself. 

Donatienne  knew  there  could  be  but  few 
stoppages  now  before  the  final  one,  for  the 
day  was  coming  to  an  end;  the  air  was 


THE   MOTHER  277 

golden ;  amongst  the  tufts  of  withered  aspho- 
del, upon  the  plateau  with  its  heather  and 
pastures,  gleamed  the  ponds,  streaked  with 
rays  of  light  between  their  purpling  banks, 
broken  here  and  there  by  a  bent  reed. 

It  was  the  final  splendour  of  the  sun,  the 
hour  that  must  see  her  arrival. 

Three  times,  as  the  train  drew  up,  the  travel- 
ler's hand  had  lifted  the  parcel  from  the  seat, 
and  she  had  risen,  determined  to  alight  at 
some  spot  which  held,  at  least,  no  greater 
terror  for  her  than  that  of  the  unknown. 

But  something  stronger  than  fear  made  her 
give  up  the  idea  of  flight;  three  times,  like 
the  voice  of  the  sea  from  unseen  caverns,  the 
names  of  Noemi,  and  Lucienne,  and  Joel 
sounded  in  her  ears. 

She  thought  of  what  Noemi  had  said  in 
the  letter  she  had  hidden  in  her  bosom :  "  We 
are  in  trouble;  to-day  father's  legs  were 
crushed ;  he  is  moaning ;  perhaps  he  is  going  to 
die ;  anyhow  he  will  never  be  able  to  work  in 
the  quarry  again.  Oh,  Maman  !  if  you  get  my 
letter,  come  back  for  his  sake  and  for  Noemi's." 

She  sat  down  again  and  summoned  strength 
to  go  on  to  the  next  station. 


278  THE   PENITENT 

The  sun  was  going  down;  the  train  drew 
up,  and  the  guard  called  out  the  name  of  the 
village  Noemi  had  given  in  her  letter. 

It  had  come. 

One  woman  only  got  out,  her  parcel  in 
her  hand ;  the  train  rumbled  away.  When  it 
had  disappeared,  she  asked  her  way,  and  being 
told  it,  did  not  move,  looking  so  white  that 
the  station-master  asked  her  if  she  were  ill. 
She  shook  her  head ;  it  was  only  that  she  felt 
herself  incapable  of  moving  or  carrying  her 
load  of  trouble  further. 

Puzzled,  the  man  let  her  alone. 

So  she  stood  for  several  minutes;  then 
without  further  argument  with  herself  for  or 
against  her  decision,  without  any  inner  con- 
sciousness of  a  struggle  and  a  victory,  she  took 
that  first  step  which  meant  the  acceptance  of 
her  fate. 

Some  mysterious  process  of  the  will ;  action 
unrelated  to  the  present  time  and  whose 
causes  dated  from  old  days ;  but  the  smallest 
sacrifice,  however  poorly,  however  tardily 
accepted,  is  a  renewal  of  the  soul. 

No  sooner  had  Donatienne  crossed  the  plat- 
form than  she  felt  more  strength  within  her; 


THE   MOTHER  279 

she  went  on  her  way  to  the  left,  repeating : 
"  It's  to  see  you  again,  my  three  little  ones  !  ': 
and  her  heart  grew  lighter  with  a  kind  of 
joy  in  suffering  for  their  sake. 

She  hurried  on ;  in  front  of  her  she  caught 
sight  of  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  and  lying 
under  the  crimson  dust  of  sunset,  the  vast 
plain  into  which  she  must  go  down. 

It  must  be  done. 

At  some  distance  from  the  station,  no  one 
to  be  seen  on  the  road,  she  opened  the  parcel 
in  its  linen  cover,  took  out  the  finely-pleated, 
velvet-edged  black  dress  she  had  worn  of  old 
when  she  went  to  Paris,  also  three  muslin 
caps,  three  of  the  Plceuc  caps  like  cyclamen- 
flowers,  and  chose  one,  though  the  stuff  was 
yellow  and  crumpled. 

Then,  going  through  a  gate  into  a  field, 
she  put  on  once  more  the  old  Breton  costume, 
and  wrapped  up  the  town-made  dress  in  the 
napkin.  "  They'll  know  me  better,  so,"  she 
thought. 

Then  she  walked  on  again,  listening  to  the 
soft  beat  of  the  linen  wings  of  the  cap  upon  her 
temples. 

Donatienne  crossed  the  plateau  and  went 


280  THE   PENITENT 

down  upon  the  plain,  which  but  now  she  had 
scanned  with  terror,  trying  to  make  out  the 
house  to  which  she  was  bound.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  enter  it. 

She  climbed  the  first  hill,  where  stood  the 
rocky  cliffs  of  the  quarry,  and  beyond  which 
unknown  to  her  lay  the  little  enclosure ;  she 
was  new  to  the  country. 

To  give  herself  courage  she  wondered  if 
her  children  would  recognize  her  and  which  of 
the  three  would  do  so  first. 

In  the  dying  light  the  quarrymen  were  still 
at  work;  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  their 
picks. 

There  was  a  child  playing  by  the  road-side, 
heaping  stones  into  pyramids. 

It  was  Baptiste,  of  whom  the  quarrymen 
had  taken  charge  since  the  accident,  bringing 
him  with  them  in  the  morning,  and  rewarding 
him  with  a  basin  of  soup  for  doing  errands  for 
them  in  the  village  below. 

As  Donatienne  passed  him,  she  said,  "  Good 
evening,  little  one." 

"  Good  evening,  Madame." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  is  it  far  to  Jean  Louarn's 
house  ?  " 


THE   MOTHER  281 

He  turned  his  square-cut  face  with  its  bright 
eyes,  alight  with  vitality,  where  the  sea- 
dreams  of  Brittany  had  no  place,  towards 
her. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  he  said,  "  not  at  all  far.  It's 
the  first  house  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill," 
and  as  she  gazed  downwards  into  the  darken- 
ing valley;  "  I  can  take  you  there,"  the  boy 
went  on.  "  It's  my  home;  I'm  a  Louarn." 

"  You  ?     That  can't  be  true  !  " 

'  Not  true  !  I  say,  you  men,  am  I  not  a 
Louarn — Baptiste  Louarn.  She  won't  believe 
me!" 

Loud  voices,  echoing  from  the  cliffs,  an- 
swered :  "  Yes  !  you  can  believe  him  !  He's 
the  son  of  one  of  our  mates." 

And  as  the  child  watched  her  face  to  see 
what  she  would  say,  it  turned  so  white  that 
it  reminded  him  of  his  sick  father's. 

Donatienne  understood; — it  was  the  child 
of  another  woman  who  was  the  first  to  greet 
her. 

Then,  from  the  depths  of  the  past  of  her 
race,  from  the  depths  of  her  own  past,  a  cry 
went  up  to  God.  In  the  anguish  of  her 
heart,  among  the  trees,  her  eyes  unconsciously 


282  THE   PENITENT 

sought  a  cross  before  which  to  pour  out  her 
poor  petition — a  cross  such  as  stands  at 
all  the  cross-roads  in  Brittany;  but  she 
looked  in  vain. 

She  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  some 
strength  returning  to  her,  she  looked  down  at 
the  child. 

"  Baptiste  Louarn,"  she  said,  "  is  your 
mother  at  home  ?  " 

"No,  Madame;  they  say  she  won't  come 
back  again." 

"  Who  says  so  ?  " 

"  My  sisters,  and  the  women  from  the 
village." 

Donatienne  took  the  child's  hand. 

"  Show  me  the  way,  my  child.  They're 
wrong.  Your  mother  has  come  back,  for 
here  I  am." 

He  did  not  understand  her,  but  together, 
side  by  side  they  went  down  the  hill. 

The  child  pointed  out  the  roof  of  the  house 
amongst  the  poplar-trunks ;  but  she  took  no 
notice.  With  staring  eyes  uplifted,  and  lips 
a-quiver  as  they  breathed  the  air,  Donatienne 
was  saying  :  "I  want  to  die ;  help  me  to  bear 
life  !  " 


THE   MOTHER  283 

Baptiste  scarcely  heard  her,  for  she  spoke 
low ;  but  he  fancied  she  said  Noemi's  name ; 
so  he  said:  "She's  coming;  when  my  big 
sister  sees  me,  she  always  comes  to  meet  me." 

As  he  spoke,  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
hill  and  could  see  the  Louarns'  quickset  hedge 
with  the  quivering  leaves  of  the  poplars  above 
it.  The  gate  was  open.  It  was  the  hour 
when  the  land  falls  silent,  drinking  in  the 
twilight  and  its  coolness. 

Baptiste  whistled  two  notes,  and  in  the  half- 
light  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  an  alert  young 
head  appeared  at  the  door  in  answer  to  the 
call.  She  was  about  to  smile — to  speak; 
then  suddenly  she  checked  herself  and  seemed 
about  to  draw  back.  Her  eyes  grew  big,  for, 
close  to  Baptiste,  she  had  caught  sight  of  a 
woman  leaning  on  the  gate — a  woman  slender, 
and  still  young,  and  pale,  and  whose  cap  was 
quite  unlike  those  of  the  women  of  the  district. 

For  a  second  Noemi  hesitated;  then  she 
found  strength  to  make  no  outcry,  but  ran 
out,  silent,  brave,  with  eyes  uplifted  to  greet 
her  happiness. 

She  was  quite  sure ;  her  heart,  quicker  than 
her  eyes,  had  recognized  her  mother. 


284  THE   PENITENT 

That  mother  awaited  her  coming,  making  no 
movement. 

And  when  Noemi  came  up  to  her,  she  still 
stood  erect,  with  closed  eyes  weighed  down  by 
both  sorrow  and  joy,  and  let  the  girl's  arms 
fold  her  round  while  she  listened  to  her 
speaking  those  long-yearned-for  words  : 

"  Maman  !     Maman  Donatienne  !  v 

But,  intense  as  was  the  joy,  her  sense  of 
unworthiness  put  it  to  flight. 

"  Maman  Donatienne,  Papa  is  better  since 
the  morning — he's  conscious  and  the  fever  is 
lessened.  Ah,  Maman,  I  had  left  off  hoping 
you'd  come  !  " 

There  was  no  one  to  listen  to  the  low 
speech  of  the  one  or  the  weeping  of  the 
other. 

Night  had  almost  fallen ;  all  was  silence  in 
the  garden,  still  some  one  might  come.  The 
mother  loosened  the  embracing  arms,  held  the 
girl  away  from  her  in  spite  of  her  attempts 
to  renew  the  embrace  and  the  low  talk,  and, 
nervously  laying  her  fingers  upon  Noemi's 
lips  in  her  agonized  dread  of  being  questioned ; 
"  Don't  ask  me  anything,"  she  said;  "  I  have 
always  kept  you  in  my  heart,  my  dear  children 


THE   MOTHER  285 

— always.  I've  come  back  for  your  sake. 
Take  me  in." 

The  girl  took  her  mother's  hand,  buoyant, 
anxious  and  proud  at  once,  and  with  lifted 
head,  led  her  past  the  beds  of  cabbage  and 
the  pond  and  into  the  house. 

The  lamp  in  the  room  had  not  been  lighted, 
and  all  the  light  there  was  came  from  a  faint 
glimmer  through  the  window,  which  fell  aslant 
upon  the  man's  bed  and  was  lost  in  the  grow- 
ing darkness. 

The  two  women  were  sitting  by  the  window ; 
Joel  and  Lucienne  were  playing  on  the  bare 
ground  in  the  dark.  The  sick  man  was 
dozing. 

When  Donatienne  came  in  behind  Noemi, 
no  one  noticed  her  and  she  went  up  to  the 
bed  unseen.  Louarn's  sleeping  head  was  in 
shadow;  his  wife's  faintly  lighted  by  the 
dying  beam.  The  women  whispered  to  each 
other  :  "  Who  is  it  ?  " 

The  wings  of  the  linen  cap  bent  over  the 
sick  man;  Donatienne  looked  at  Louarn, 
and  this  woman,  who  had  sinned  and  suffered, 
felt  pity  now  at  last.  She  gazed  upon  his 
face,  emaciated,  tortured,  aged,  worn  by  grief 


286  THE   PENITENT 

and  work — the  face  her  going  had  created — 
and  her  lips  trembled. 

Noemi,  who  had  drawn  a  little  back,  but 
still  near  enough  to  keep  her  hold  on  the 
finely-pleated  skirt,  breathed  one  word  into 
the  silent  room. 

"  Maman  !  " 

The  man's  eyelids  unclosed  and  out  of  the 
depths  of  sleep  and  oblivion  his  soul  rose 
slowly  into  his  eyes;  at  first,  affrighted  at 
the  vision  of  a  Breton  cap,  they  turned  away, 
then  came  back  to  it  tremulously,  and  at  last 
glistened  with  each  a  falling  tear.  He  had 
shed  so  many  before  that  these  fell  all  the 
quicker. 

"Is  it  you,  Donatienne  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  me." 

Their  voices  were  as  faint  as  the  light. 
Louarn's  eyes  seemed  to  deepen  as  if  a  way 
were  opening  into  the  hidden  anguish  of  his 
soul. 

"  How  long  you've  been  in  coming  !  "  he 
said;  "  and  now  I've  nothing  but  misery  to 
give  you." 

She  was  about  to  answer,  but  his  eyes 
closed  once  more  and  his  head  fell  back 


THE   MOTHER  287 

sideways  on  the  pillow,  inert  and  overcome 
by  sleep. 

Donatienne  turned  round  towards  the 
middle  of  the  room;  she  was  breathing 
quickly  like  one  near  weeping.  The  two  village 
women  had  drawn  near.  Noemi  led  Lucienne 
and  Joel  up  to  her,  struggling  and  hanging 
back,  saying  in  vain  to  them  :  "  It's  Maman — 
the  real  one,  I  tell  you."  She  was  a  stranger 
to  them  and  they  were  afraid  of  her ;  and  when 
Donatienne  had  kissed  them,  they  escaped 
and  crept  back  into  the  shadow. 

Then,  as  she  stood  beside  the  bed  whence 
she  had  not  moved,  she  said :  "  Get  me  a 
light,  children." 

When  the  lamp  was  set  upon  the  table  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  it  could  be  seen  that 
the  little  Bretonne  had  not  been  able  to 
restrain  her  tears,  but  that  she  was  resolved 
not  to  give  way  completely.  As  she  stood 
up  by  Noemi  she  looked  like  a  rather  taller 
sister — a  sister  who  was  in  trouble.  She  gave 
a  great  sigh. 

"  Noemi,"  she  said  gently,  "  isn't  it  time 
to  get  supper  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Maman." 


288  THE   PENITENT 

Donatienne  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  her 
next  words  were  difficult  to  say. 

"  Give  me  the  sabots  that  belonged  to  that 
woman  who  is  gone." 

"  Yes,  Maman." 

"  I  will  go  and  draw  the  water,  and  make 
the  soup  for  all  four  of  you." 

And  having  put  on  the  other  woman's 
sabots,  she  set  to  work. 


THE    END 


Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited,  London  and  Sungay. 


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